


occupational hazards

by curiouscorvid (prometheanTactician)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mary Keay - Freeform, Past Child Abuse, Seriously i fucking hate her guts, She is her own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 31,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prometheanTactician/pseuds/curiouscorvid
Summary: A collection of gerrymichael moments that I write as warmups before working on my larger gerrymichael fic that I have in the works. Prompts are pulled from this post: https://cherry-on-topple.tumblr.com/post/189600352882/not-doing-too-good-sentence-startersI will include warnings at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 472
Kudos: 386





	1. "Woah, are you okay?"

**Author's Note:**

> First chapters Michael is your friendly neighborhood pre-spiral human-person

“You handled that pretty well for a rookie.” It’s still a little sad, how Michael reacts to Gerry telling him things like that. How he lights up as if he's receiving a coveted gift. The slightest hint of praise and the guy is glowing. ‘The guy’ in question is still sitting dazed on the ground, covered in blood that (hopefully) isn’t his. But one sentence and he's perking up like he hadn’t almost died a moment ago. It leaves Gerry vaguely sad, and unbearably fond.

“I mean, nothing else to do, really, is there?” Michael points out, trying to pull himself together and up off the floor. “If I can’t handle it alright, I’ll get killed.”

“You’ll likely be killed anyway.” Gerard points out helpfully. It doesn’t come out nearly as comforting as he'd hoped it would. Michael gives it an awkward laugh, which is a valiant and appreciated effort, but he's still shaking horribly. There’s no way his trembling legs will hold him upright, Gerry thinks. But then they do. Michael gets onto his feet with a wobble, and then he starts walking.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Gerry.” He really should put more faith in Michael. He’s staying on his feet just fine, after all. Few people could end up in a tussle with a giant monster made of meat and walk away from it so easily. Gerry settles a hand on his back to help him out, but he’s doing a lot better than expected. It’s encouraging. Maybe, if things keep up this well, he’ll stop having heart attacks every time Michael disappears from view during their little book hunts.

They make it to the door before Michael keels over.

It seems to take them both by surprise. One moment they’re stopping to open the door and the next-

Michael nearly hits the ground.

Gerry barely catches him in time. There’s a loud clatter as his shotgun hits the concrete, falling out of his grasp as he braces himself against Michael’s dead weight. Because that’s what it is. Deadweight. Micheal is completely limp in his arms, silent and still, and for a stifling moment Gerry is so sure he’s dead-

Then he’s up again, shaking himself. Gerry doesn’t let go. Michael isn’t holding himself up anymore.

“Woah,” Carefully, slowly, Gerry leads Michael down to sit back on the floor. “Are you okay? You went totally dark for a second there.”

“I’m fine, I-” Michael stops short, wincing. “Just a head-rush, I think-”

Fuck that. Gerry reaches into his coat and grabs the flashlight he’d brought. In their line of work you always needed a few, and then some spares, and then more batteries besides. His free hand finds Michael’s cheek, holding his face still while the other shines the light in his eyes. Michael leans into the contact, despite the situation. He's always so soft. Hard to believe he could wrestle a mutated entity of the Flesh.

“That’s one word for it,” Gerry sighs heavily, clicking the light off and pocketing it. “Congrats. You’re concussed.” He pats Michael on the shoulder, giving him a moment before trying to pull him back onto his feet. He doesn't want to jostle Michael around but they do, in fact, need to get out of there. Sooner rather than later.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“The hell are you apologizing for?” Michael sounds so deflated when he apologizes. It makes Gerry's hands itch, makes his chest tighten. He never knows how to act when people are sad. He never knows what to say. He knows anything he can think of will likely just make it worse and Michael-

Michael deserves better than that.

“Because I… didn’t actually handle it that well? I got hurt.” And he sounds so torn up about it, too. What does he think is going to happen? That Gerry will decide he’s failed some test? That Gerry well abandon him because Michael doesn't matter in any way other than how useful he can be?

Knowing Michael, yeah, that's exactly what he's expecting. Luckily for him, Gerry is an old pro at disappointing people.

“You sure did. But you didn’t get killed. That’s still better than most.” Gerry reminds him.

It’s easier to say that. Easier than saying what’s going through his mind anyway.

Easier than saying that he’s relieved with this result. Easier than saying he’s glad things turned out like this. Easier than saying that when the meaty behemoth had thrown itself onto Michael, Gerry had been completely certain that his boyfriend was dying a horrible, cannibalism-adjacent death. Easier than saying that his heart is still racing from the pure white-knuckle terror of that moment. Easier than saying his hands are still shaking from it. Easier than saying he feels sick thinking about it. Easier than saying that ever since Michael started helping him all he’s been able to think about or have nightmares about is Michael ending up maimed, or dead, or in such a state that he wishes he were dead.

Easier than saying that a concussion is far better than that.


	2. "You took that hit pretty hard..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human Michael again! I promise some of these have Distortion Michael.

Watching Gerry's work is a conflicting experience.

On the one hand, it's thrilling. Gerry is a real pro at handling the things hiding in the dark. He's knowledgeable, and brave, and determined to the point of stubbornness. The way his eyes sharpen at the sight of the paranormal, the way they light up when he managed to come out on top, the way he grits his teeth when he's in trouble, the smallest shadow of a smile when he finally turns things around-

Gerry is already plenty attractive, in Michael’s opinion, but that confidence emphasizes it all the more. He can hardly look away.

On the other hand, he can hardly bear to watch. Gerry’s work is dangerous, and he never comes out of it unscathed. Neither of them do, but Gerry tends to take the brunt of it. Mostly because he seems determined to keep Michael from coming to the sort of harm Gerry regularly shrugs off. The things they fight become less paralyzingly horrific to Michael as time goes on, but the sight of Gerry lying limp on the ground or thrown against a wall or stabbed or burned or strangled-

That sort of terror would never lose its potency.

It can't keep on that way. Gerry suffers enough as it is, and Michael is trying to be helpful to him. He can’t stand that Gerry is coming to more harm due to his interference. He considers bowing out. He considers stepping down and letting Gerry carry on the way he had before but-

But the way he’d carried on before wasn’t healthy! He’d still been getting hurt, but he’d also been lonely, no matter how vehemently he denied it. He’d never had anyone on his side. Michael had put himself in Gerry’s corner and he refuses to leave Gerry with no one. So that leaves one other option. One thing Michael can do. Gerry will fight it, he'll hate it, but it's for his own good. For their own good. A sacrifice they would have to make if they want to continue on together:

They're going to have to talk about it.

There's no “good time” to try to communicate with Gerry in such a way. Anything that might point out emotional vulnerability gets denied, defied, and dismissed in short order when presented to him. He’d sooner choke on gravesoil than say that he cares. He’d sooner swim in spiders than say he's worried. He’d sooner deal with any measure of terrors, with any entity, before admitting he doesn’t want Michael to get hurt.

Still, maybe Michael could choose a better moment. It's entirely possible that right after a creature of the Hunt attempts to literally snap Gerry in half is not the best time to try to engage in a conversation that will require any amount of openness.

But he can’t put it off any longer! Gerry nearly had his spine broken because he wouldn’t just stand by and let a weird mutant man-wolf-werewolf-man-wolf-thing get its paw-hand-things on Michael. He would have died if Michael hadn’t jumped on the creatures arched, fur-covered back, distracting it long enough for Gerry to shoot it in the face with his shotgun. Michael gives himself a pat on the back for managing to let go and roll away before the giant lump of twisted bones and gnashing teeth could land on him.

There's a beat as they both watched the monster, catching their breath and watching to see if it would do the same. But there is no movement. No rise and fall, no twitching, no nothing. It's dead. 

Gerry shoots it once more just to be sure.

Then he slumps against a tree.

Michael hurries over to help, but Gerry is already pushing off of the tree and lumbering out of the woods. It's all Michael can do to hurry after him, wringing his hands, fretting. He feels completely useless. That's pretty standard for him, sure, but it never stung so starkly than in moments like this.

They’d rented a cabin in the area. They always need a place nearby their quarry where they could patch up afterwards. They're both covered in claw-marks as they enter, looking not unlike they’d gotten into a fight with a paper shredder. Gerry’s coat is a total loss, and Michael’s sweater is even worse. Both get left on the floor in the entranceway. Shirts followed soon after. It would be hard to apply stitches to a wound through a t-shirt.

Gerry’s torso is a wreck. Already bruising in mottled purple, dark and angry under drying blood. Michael feels queasy.

“You good?” Michael almost jumps when Gerry breaks the silence. It's a good thing he doesn’t since he's pulling a needle and thread through a wound on Gerry’s back. The question confuses him, though. They had already established he was in one piece. There's no chance Gerry would sit calmly and let Michael patch him up if Michael hadn’t already been tended to. “You usually talk more, is all.” He doesn’t even flinch when Michael gives the thread a final tug, finishing his work. He never asks where Gerry gets the proper medical materials. He's probably better off not knowing.

“…You took that hit pretty hard.” He finally points out. The bruising has spread and darkened since they’d gotten in.

“I’ve had worse.” Yeah, he had. But this time it's because of Michael. He can still see the beast bearing down upon him, like he was still staring in that gaping maw, into rows of jagged teeth and breath that smelled like rot. He should be dead, or something like it, but Gerry had interfered. Gerry had smacked the thing on the snout so hard some of that mouthful of serrated knives spilled out onto the floor. It had turned on him in a rage, pawed hands shooting out and grabbing him like he was a toy, lifting him up to snap him cleanly in half. Michael can hear the snap of bones, the sharp intake of breath that's as good as a scream of agony when coming from Gerry-

He can feel a panic attack at the edges of himself.

“You shouldn’t- You almost-” He takes a breath, steadying himself. He doesn't want to cry. Gerry is so good at this, so composed, and Michael always feels like such an idiot breaking down in front of him. “Please stop trying to protect me.” He finally manages the words. He doesn’t manage any semblance of steadiness whilst saying them.

Gerry immediately turns to look at him, probably too quickly considering he almost definitely has more than one broken rib. His eyes flash, and for a moment Michael thinks it must be anger, but the set of his jaw is too familiar. Gerry isn’t angry with him.

Gerry is just stubborn.

“Absolutely not,” is not the response Michael expects. He was prepared for ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ or even ‘I would never do something so stupid as try to protect someone.' Despite the fact that Gerry tries to protect everyone- “What, you wanted me to just stand there and let that thing eat you?”

“Yes.” Michael replies immediately, eyes locked on where their jackets lie on the floor. “It’d be better than-”

“No, Michael, you being dead would not be better than me breaking a rib.”

“I think it might be more than one, actually, the bruising-”

“Michael.” A tattooed hand settles on his cheek, moves him so he’s meeting Gerry’s eyes. The fire inside of them is edging closer to something like rage. “You don’t get to decide what I die for.”

“I-” His heart leaps into his throat, the mere thought leaves a taste of metal in his mouth. Gerry dead is bad enough, but Gerry dead because of him- “God- Gerry, please don’t- I couldn’t stand it-”

“It’s not like that’s what I’m aiming for, Michael, but… Look, when it grabbed me, what did you do? You jumped on its back. The damn thing was ten times your size and you hopped onto its back without any hesitation. You dug your fingers so far into its eyes it screamed. You made a vicious monster scream. Were you thinking about how it could just- drop onto the ground and crush you? Were you thinking about how it could drop me and grab you instead?”

“Well… No, but-”

“No. And when it was about to snap its jaws on your curly blond head,” Gerry’s hand moved up to tousle his hair. “I wasn’t thinking about what it would do to me. Just what it was about to do to you, and how I wasn’t going to let that happen. And not a moment later, you did the exact same thing.”

“Well, yeah, but- but you’re worth it-”

“To you.” Gerry’s hand is a steady weight on the back of his neck. “And you’re worth it to me. So, y’know… Deal with it.” He shrugs, then presses a kiss to Michael’s forehead. None of this is going the way Michael expected it to.

He’s pretty okay with that.


	3. "Don't stand up yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human Michael again, but the next one.... 🌀🌀🌀🌀

When most people in the know think about The Vast, they think about falling. They think about the wide, open spaces. They think about endless sky and fathomless oceans. They think about lightening and ozone and air being forced from lungs. The vertigo tends to be swept to the side. It’s unpleasant, sure, but not altogether frightening.

Those people, obviously, have never had the full power of The Vast turned against them.

From the look on Michael’s face, Gerry assumes he is no longer one of those people.

The poor guy is lying flat on his back, arms spread out like he’s a skydiver, eyes wide and unblinking as he stares vacantly at the ceiling. Gerry would think him dead if his chest weren’t heaving in its attempts to take in air. One hand is clutching at the ground desperately. The other has a death-grip on a sleek, cobalt-blue book with words scrawled elegantly along the spine.

From The Library of Jürgen Leitner.

Gerry tries to get it out of his hand, but Michael isn’t letting go of it. He tries to pry Michael’s fingers off but it quickly becomes clear that short of breaking Michael’s fingers... there’s nothing he can do to get it away from him.

He’s seriously considering going through it with. Broken fingers are less dangerous than extended exposure to a Leitner. The longer Michael lies there, unable to breathe, the more Gerry can feel a frantic static building up in his bones. A need to act. A need to do something, to help him, to stop this-

Then Michael manages to get in the breath he’d been struggling for. He shoots straight up like he’s waking from a nightmare, the book drops from his hand. Gerry immediately grabs it and shoves it into the lockbox he’d brought with him. He puts it aside immediately, though, because Michael is trying to stand up.

“Wait a sec,” he puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder, and in response is immediately gripped around the wrist. It isn’t a threat, or an attempt to pry him off. It’s clinging. He can practically see the way Michael’s head is spinning. “Don’t stand up yet. You’ll just fall back down, probably hit your head. Or worse, you’ll never get down again.” He mostly means that last bit as a joke. Mostly. Michael goes even paler than before, though, so he’s pretty sure it doesn’t land.

“Are you um…” Michael’s voice is paper-thin, crumpled and torn. “Are you going to burn it?”

“Nah, not this one. This one gets dumped in the ocean.”

“But… But isn’t the ocean, y’know…” His shoulders twitch like he wants to gesture, but neither hand will stop gripping their anchors long enough. The one on the ground looks like the nails will break if they dig any deeper into the floor. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a shaky breath, and speaks so softly Gerry has to lean closer to hear him. “You can’t tell which way is up, in the ocean. Can’t tell any directions. Can’t tell where- where the ground is. There’s no ground, there’s-”

“Sure, sure. The ocean belongs to The Vast… to a point.” Gerry cuts him off, mercifully. “But once you get deep enough… Well, that’s The Buried.” He allows himself a grin, something twisted and cruel, gleeful sadism he reserves solely for things like these. “The sheer pressure, pulling and pressing and crushing. The darkness closing in on all sides, the ability to move stifled, a whole ocean of water closed around you, engulfing and consuming... That’s The Buried all over, and there’s nothing more opposed to The Vasts nature. It’ll be completely powerless, nothing that belongs to The Vast will be able to retrieve it, and The Buried never lets something go of its own accord.”

As Michael’s shaking subsides, Gerry carefully nudges him to stand.

“I’ll do that myself after, though. You can head home and have a lie down if you’d like-”

“No!” Michael shouts, and suddenly both hands are gripping onto Gerry’s arm. “No, I-” He can’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. It’s written all over his face, and Gerry has gone against The Vast enough times to know exactly what Michael means. If he loses his anchor, he’ll start falling again. If he loses his anchor, he’ll lose himself. The moment he steps somewhere without Gerry, he’ll be stepping into nothing at all.

“Hey,” Gerry stops him as he keeps trying to vocalize why they can’t go their separate ways yet. “It’s fine. We’ll go home first. I’ll have to figure out how to get us above the Mariana’s Trench anyway.”

“You’re sure?” How could he not be, when faced with the relief replacing terror in Michael’s expression.

“Positive.”


	4. "That definitely looks broken."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is here... Michael Distortion...

Someone is knocking on the door.

Michael smiles, but not with its face. It doesn’t have a face, at that moment, until it does again. It also has hands. They’re not good at opening doors, but the door isn’t a door and thus does not need to be opened like one. It opens the door. A person falls through.

A Gerry-person, specifically. That’s Michael’s favourite kind of person.

“What a delightful surprise!” It laughs, pulling Gerry through. It doesn’t close the door right away. There’s something else coming towards them, and how rude would it be to close the door on a guest?

But Gerry has never cared much for being polite.

“Close it-” Gerry tries to kick the door shut from where he’s hanging by his jacket in one of Michael’s hands. His boot-clad foot hits it solidly, repeatedly, but it doesn’t swing shut because it isn’t a door. Gerry does such funny things sometimes. Does he think the shifting shadow slinking closer is a danger to them? Michael laughs again. It keeps laughing, as the thing gets closer. It can smell the panic, the fear, so lovely as it resonates through Michael's hallways. The ratty wallpaper peels off in great strips, the strips disintegrate, and all that’s left on the wall is fresh paint. The paint is black because it thinks Gerry might like that. The thing crosses the threshold, and Michael turns from Gerry to smile pleasantly at it.

It screams.

The shadow twists into lovely little spirals as Michael’s free hand sinks into it. The shadows claw at the not-quite-an-aem, and Michael's laughter grows at the intruders feeble attempts. The laughter does not echo, but it is still everywhere.

“Always so arrogant!” It tells the shadow with glee. “You know, just because you’re one of the oldest does not mean you are invulnerable.” It brings the writhing mass of darkness to its face, tilts its head as it looks the thing over. The shadow has no mouth. That doesn't keep it from screaming. “You can tell when someone is marked. You can tell he is mine. Yet here you are, trying to take him for yourself!” Michael cackles for a long moment, until it tapers off in a long sigh. “The… _audacity._ ” 

“Michael.” How stern! Gerry is glowering. Michael has not turned from the shadows dripping from its hand, but ir can see the expression anyway. The walls do not have eyes, but they are watching too.

“He meddles in our business!” The shadow hisses. “He forfeits your protection!”

“Does he?” Michael will stop laughing when the situation stops being funny. Probably. “And how is that working out for you?”

Gerry is getting agitated, so Michael gives its hand another twist, and its fingers twist separately. They click like tumblers in a lock. There’s a snap like an ill-fitting key breaking off when it’s turned too hard. The shadows dissipate. The door closes and is gone. There was never a door. It's just a wall, a hall, and neither of those things are doors. Usually.

There is silence. That is also not a door and, unlike the door, it is absolutely there.

“Put me down.” Gerry gripes, kicking half-heartedly at the spindly piece of stretched-out taffy holding him two feet off the ground. It doesn’t drop him, but the ground comes up to meet him. He shakes off the grip, and Michael notices how one of his arms is hanging limply at his side. Michael _reaches._

Gerry moves out of the way smoothly, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. It no longer exists. He stares at his empty hand in frustration before turning his glare to Michael.

“You can let me out now, if the thing is dead.” He’s twitchy. He wants to leave. Michael would think that was adorable, but it can’t tear its eyes off of the misshaped arm.

“That definitely looks broken,” it points out cheerfully.

“Sure is.”

“You should let me fix it.”

“What, did your first aid carry over into the Spiral?” Gerry scoffs. Michael presses a kiss to his cheek and takes his hand. Gerry has a concerningly high pain tolerance but Michael does not care. It is careful as it moves the arm.

“You might not want to watch this,” Michael warns despite its very nature insisting otherwise. “It will give you a headache. Especially here.” Gerry looks him in the eyes instead as he sighs.

“This is going to be awful, isn’t it-” His voice breaks and falls away as Michael’s fingers dig into his arm. There’s no blood. The skin twists in spirals around the fingers, like with the shadow-being a moment before. Michael feels the jagged edge of the broken bone and snaps it back into place. Gerry’s other arm shoots up, painted nails digging into Michael’s too-long, too-sharp arm. He makes no sound. He doesn’t blink. He stares past Michael and keeps his breathing even.

“Yes.” Michael replies once it’s done, pulling its hand away. Gerry has gone impressively pale. That makes Michael giggle. Any other person would have passed out, but this isn’t just any person. This is a Gerry-person, and they’re made of sterner stuff than other people.

Michael kisses Gerry’s cheek again as Gerry sags against it tiredly. Envelopes him in a solid, jagged embrace. They don't fit together properly, not at all, because Michael is not something that fits anywhere really. It fits within not fitting. It holds Gerry anyway, and Gerry sinks into it without protest.

Without a doubt, this is Michael's favourite person.


	5. "Walk it off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama Spiral

It hurts to look at the figure on the ground. Not in any sort of emotional way, but it does grate on the edges of his mind. The hair curls, which is normal enough, but so do the limbs. The figure is still, and yet it is shifting constantly. The hair is not still at all, and twitches periodically. It's a bit pathetic, really, and totally unnecessary. 

He nudges it with his foot.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Eyes opened behind the hair, and the curls shift to reveal a grinning face, settling around it after a moment.

“You weren’t worried?”

“About you? Never.”

“You used to be,” Michael sounds like it's pouting, but the smile never leaves. “You used to worry about me all the time.”

“You used to be a lot more breakable, if you remember. Now if someone breaks you, you just find it funny that they think it matters.”

“Still, though,” the twisting thing curls its way up Gerry’s body and drapes itself over him, along his shoulders. Gerry starts walking, and there is no great amount of weight against him despite the feeling that something is there. “I miss it.”

“You miss being breakable?” He knows that’s not what Michael means. The creature laughs.

“Of course not! But, I miss…” A drawn out sigh, tinged with a longing that makes his bones hurt. “I miss the way you’d worry. I miss how you cared.”

Gerry stops walking. This conversation is painfully familiar. He remembers a late night in the archive, dusty research and cold tea, sleepless and exhausted and stressed out. He remembers a young man with blond hair, unable to meet his eyes, barely managing to hold back tears as he confessed:

_I just- I care about you so much. And it hurts, because I know…_

_I know you don't care about me. Not the way that I care about you. And that's okay, really! It's fine, but..._

Maybe Michael really hasn't changed that much, after all.

“I still care.”

“Not about me, though. You care about what I used to be.” It doesn’t say the words sadly. It just… says them. Like it isn't ripping Gerry's heart out. “You care about the shadow of that person. You care about what’s left of him. You care about the bits of him that show through me. You don’t care about the thing that doesn’t-quite-exist now. No… No, I’d be willing to bet you hate me rather a lot. After all, the fact that I exist is why he does not. But it’s also the reason he still does, which is why you let me do things like this.” He feels the Distortion bury its face in his hair. He also feels his heart break. Those two things are very much connected.

“…Come on,” he shrugs and shifts, trying to jostle the thing off of him. His efforts do not affect it, but the intent does, and Michael slides off to stand beside him. It towers, still smiling brightly despite everything it had just said.

Gerry reaches up.

He fists his hands in the fabric of Michael’s sweater. He pulls the grinning visage down to his level and kisses it fiercely. Michael makes a soft noise, almost like he used to but not quite, and the fissure in Gerry’s heart runs a little deeper. Too-long fingers brace against his back, too-sharp angles press against him on all sides. He turns his head and opens his mouth. Michael’s tongue is too long to be a human tongue, and the texture isn’t quite right, but Gerry refuses to shy away. He doubles his efforts. Because this creature isn’t Michael, not quite, but it isn’t not Michael either. It’s all that’s left of him but it’s something else entirely. It isn’t really Michael. Not the way he used to be. Gerry knows that.

He knows that, and he loves it anyway. Not because it was Michael, though that was the start of it. But because of everything this creature is to him now. Every niche it fills in his life, every moment it’s been beside him, every time it cheers him up or calms him down or pisses him off or breaks his heart. This thing, this not-being, this creature. This ‘Michael’ that is looking down at him as he pulls away, eyes wide and grin replaced by something like awe. It’s dazed. Gerry feels oddly proud.

“Come on, then,” he nudges it, smiling softly as it blinks too deliberately at him. The way its eyelids slide over its retinas stings in an odd way. “Walk it off. I want to get home before it rains.” He’s already heading off when he hears movement behind him.

“I could get us there faster-”

“Nah. I don’t mind walking.” He reaches behind himself without looking. His hand closes around too many joints, fingers that are too long. He holds on tight. The thing settles beside him, squeezes his hand back, presses against his side with a desperate energy. The way it feels against him grates like nails on a chalkboard, but he doesn’t shy away.

He leans into it.


	6. "How are you feeling?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What would a prompt list be without a sickfic? Michael is spiralling lads

There’s something unfortunately hilarious about Gerry feeling ill. He’s so untouchable normally, so detached from everyone around him, seeming like he’s something more than human. He goes head to head with creatures that could rip him apart with nothing but a thought and doesn’t even flinch. He stares into the abyss and the abyss blinks first.

He is curled up in a blanket burrito on the floor.

“I fell off the couch,” he explains lamely as Michael looks down at him. The creatures tilts its head, but in a way necks cannot bend.

“Yes, you did.” It laughs gently. Melodically. “How are you feeling?”

“Like absolute-” He’s cut off by a cough. His face is flushed and his hair is sticking to his forehead. “Absolute rubbish.”

“I’ll make some tea,” Michael offers pleasantly. That’s a talent he retained as he entered the Spiral. He doesn’t suggest the hospital, because Gerry will not go to one regardless.

It doesn’t head towards the kitchen. It lifts Gerry up effortlessly and settles him onto the couch. Pillows from the bedroom are on the couch, but they weren’t a moment ago. That doesn’t change that they currently are, or that Gerry is currently nestled into a tiny plush fort that didn’t exist just before.

Michael doesn’t leave his side, and presses tea into his hand quicker than the water would have boiled.

Gerry sips it without question.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Gerry grumbles after a moment, because he’s sniffly and sweaty and gross, a bit delirious with a fever, and he really doesn’t want anyone seeing him at the moment. A cold cloth presses against his cheek. His eyes close. Nothing has ever felt better. 

“This is the Most Important Thing at the moment.” it presses a kiss to Gerry’s forehead. It’s sickeningly sweet. He’d throw up if he’d been able to keep anything down the past few days.

"I've missed you, y'know." Gerard mumbles blearily, and the impossible hand that had been carding through his hair freezes. The cold cloth settles along his forehead. 

"Have I been gone?" It asks, sounding as if it truly has no idea.

"Nah, but I've been." Comes the vague reply. "Gone, I mean. I've been gone. Mentally. Emotionally? I dunno."

"Yes, I have noticed."

"I wanna be nearer. Less distant."

"Then why aren't you?"

"Can't be."

"Ah. I see. 

"Couldn't be before, either, really. Was getting better at it, towards the end, but then- then I thought you'd died and it…" A shaky breath. "It _sucked._ It fucking sucked. I couldn't… I dunno? I just couldn't. And then you come back all weird and it's like… how can all that pain have been for nothing? How can I risk feeling it again? I could barely get through it the first time. And when something happens to you this time, I dunno how I'll survive it."

"When? Not if?"

"You're important to me. Something awful happening to you is inevitable."

"Ah." It sounds oddly unsteady. Uneased. "But… surely it would not be so awful this time around?"

"How d'you figure?"

"I am not him. Not completely, anyway. Partially. Enough to love you." It tells him, and Gerard is very aware of a bone-deep ache that has nothing to do with the flu. It's always been there. Never really left.

"Yeah… yeah, I know. Used to think that mattered." He tries to snort, but being congested makes derision difficult. "Clearly it doesn't. Went and fell in love with you anyway."

There is a _sound._ It cannot be described, as it resembles nothing Gerry has ever experienced before. It resembles nothing in the current reality he resides in. It resembles nothing a human being should be able to hear. Like an absolute moron, he opens his heavy eyes.

He immediately closes them again, hissing in pain.

He doesn't know what he just saw. Angular circles, jagged spirals, shifting stillness and still movement. Two of everything and yet nothing at all. He doesn't know what he just saw, he cannot know what he just saw, but it hurt in more ways than the human brain can process. But his brain tries to process it anyway.

Gerard wonders, is this what a stroke feels like? But no. No, it can't be. A stoke is a real thing that happens to real humans. This? This is not.

"Sorry!" Michael gasps, and it sounds like screeching tires. Like a fork scraping a plate. It isn't screaming, but the pitch is _wrong._ "Sorry! Sorry, sorry, give me a moment- don't look- Really, don't look, an aneurysm is a real risk at the moment." It tries to laugh, unsuccessfully. Like the sound can't find the way through a maze-like throat.

"Pulling yourself together?" Gerard can't help how strained he sounds.

"Trying."

"Will that happen every time I say I love you?"

"I really hope not."

"You don't know?"

"How could I? I've never experienced it before.'

"This sort of shifting you mean?"

"No, no, you saying you love me." It does manage a laugh now, gentle and jagged. "Curious and curiouser."

"I do, though. I love you. Sorry I… don't really say it. Did you not know?"

"I don't think it will always happen. It didn't, just then."

"Michael, did you really not know?"

There is silence. 

"Get some rest, Gerard."

Something settles atop him, curls close, and when he opens his eyes he can't see anything past the mountainous mass of blond curls. Michael is trying to tuck its head under his chin. It doesn't quite fit, but it's clinging so desperately to him that he doesn't have the heart to say so.

So he wraps his arms around it, ignores the strange pinching where his skin meets edges that are not there. He holds the creature close, like that will keep it safe. He presses a kiss against the ridiculous shifting spirals pretending to be hair.

Finally, he rests.


	7. "When was the last time you slept?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human Michael makes a comeback, Gerard tries to be a good boyfriend

Gerard has never been the best at taking care of other people.

Saving them, sure. He can rescue people from the jaws of death or whatever, can fight off the creatures hell-bent on ripping them apart, but he always leaves the aftermath to someone else. A hospital, a friend, a family member. Basically anyone but him. He knows how to fight bad things, but he doesn’t know how to comfort someone after that bad thing happens. 

Which is why he has no idea what to do when he sees Michael suffering. When he sees him walking around like a zombie, not seeing what he’s looking at, not hearing what he’s told, not processing anything. Michael is usually so present, so attentive to everyone around him, it's strange to see him so disconnected. The shadows under his eyes could put Gerry’s to shame, and that simply isn’t allowed.

They don’t live together. Not officially, anyway, but they always end up going home together after work at the Archives. To one or the other, it doesn’t matter, but usually it’s Michael’s just because he has more… practical things. Like a kettle. And a couch. And a working refrigerator.

Gerry has never been very good at sleeping. His version of crashing on Michael’s couch basically means draping himself over it and reading for hours on end, or sketching until the sun comes up, or watching weird documentaries. But he always assumes that when Michael shuts himself away in his bedroom every night, it's to sleep.

Clearly that isn’t the case.

They enter Michael’s apartment as usual, and Gerry has no idea what to do. He doesn’t know how to bring it up, if he should even bring it up. He knows that if Michael turned around and tried to lecture him about not sleeping he’d be pretty annoyed, but that's just his life. Always has been. But it isn’t Michael’s life. Or, at least, it hadn’t been before Gerard came around. He feels sick for a moment. 

Yeah, okay, he has to say something.

“Michael,” he tries, but Michael doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even react. “Michael.” Once more, following after him because Michael is still walking slowly, vaguely towards the kitchen. Gerry grabs his hand to stop him.

“Hm?” Michael looks up, finally, and levels him with a hazy look. Gerry feels something in his chest go taut. He doesn’t let go of Michael’s hand. Holds tighter, even.

“When was the last time you slept?” He finally settles on a question, softly spoken and unaccusing. To Michael’s credit, he doesn’t lie.

“Dunno. Time is weird.” His voice is barely there, weak in a way Gerry hasn’t associated with Michael for a very long time. Not since properly getting to know him. Not since seeing him smack a cultist over the head with a two-by-four. Still, the answer makes Gerry snort a quick laugh.

“Sure is. What’s keeping you up?” He’s still holding Michael’s hand, but his other is in Michael’s hair brushing the curls out of his face. Michael leans into it. The thing in Gerry’s chest relaxes, radiates warmth. He feels the strange, insistent desire to lean in and kiss Michael's forehead. He refrains, holds himself back for a moment until he remembers he doesn't _have_ to hold himself back. The quiet sound Michael makes when Gerard kisses him makes the action absolutely worth it.

Gerard has never been so fond.

“Just doesn’t feel… safe anymore, I guess." Michael sighs heavily after a moment, sags a little as if he can barely stay standing. "I used to think if I was in my flat, in my room, in my bed, I was safe. Now I know I’m not.” And it’s all Gerry’s fault, isn’t it? Sure, Michael was never really safe. No one is. But he’s less safe for getting close to Gerry, and now he’s suffering even when they aren’t actively in danger. If Gerry really cared, really loved him, he’d keep his distance. He’d stay away from Michael for his own good. Instead he kisses him gently, lets Michael’s small sigh untie the knot of anxiety inside of him.

Gerard has never been so selfish.

“You can’t stay up forever, Michael. It’ll just make you more vulnerable. An easier target.” Gerry isn’t used to taking care of other people. He isn’t _good_ at taking care of other people. Michael’s eyes light up with horror, and Gerry has never been angrier at himself. “Look, uh- Why don’t you stay out on the couch with me tonight? If neither of us are sleeping then at least we can watch a movie, keep each other company. I don’t wanna leave you alone if you’re feeling worried.”

“If you always kept me company when I was worried then you’d never go away.” Michael pointed out with a small smile. “I like that plan.” Gerry scoffs, let's Michael go make tea. He heads to the couch to find something worth watching. He thanks Michael for the mug that gets passed to him, lets Michael curl up against his side even though Gerry doesn’t really know how to cuddle. He puts an arm around him, because that’s what people in movies do, and that seems like the right thing because Michael makes a gently content sound and presses closer against him.

It’s only six in the evening when Michael passes out, half-empty mug still clutched in his hands. Gerard follows not an hour after. 

When they eventually wake up, just an hour before they have to be at the Archive, they’ll be in such a rush to get to work that they won’t even notice the spilled tea on the rug.


	8. "You look like shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human Michael isn't fucking around
> 
> Wrote this in like 10 minutes while in the bath so uh
> 
> ¯¯¯¯¯¯\ _(ツ)_/¯¯¯¯¯¯

If someone had told Michael when he first met Gerard Keay that one day he would find his badass goth coworker curled up and crying, he wouldn't have believed them. He'd have given a pointed look in the direction of the tall, imposing figure with eye tattoos, piercings, and military-grade combat boots. He'd have looked back at whoever had suggested such a thing. He'd have laughed.

Michael is not laughing.

Gerry is on the floor or their apartment. It's Michael's apartment, in theory, but not in practice. He thinks Gerard must've drank too much, at first. Gone on a bit of a bender after a rough job, maybe. But when Gerry looks up at him in the dark, wide eyes bloodshot from crying but completely sober, he knows this is something much worse.

Something very upsetting must have happened. Gerry doesn't break down often, especially not where someone might find him, and so that must mean this is a very delicate and serious situation. Michael knows he has to be careful. He has to be gentle. He has to choose his words precisely lest he risk making everything immeasurably _worse_ somehow.

He's staring. He knows he is. His first instinct is to ask if Gerry is okay, but that would be stupid. Obviously he isn't okay! So then he should ask what happened, yes? Except Gerard can be very cagey about things that leave him vulnerable, and whatever this is has left him very vulnerable indeed, and so the chances of him admitting the truth of what it was are completely nil. So that question is pointless. He should ask if Gerry needs anything but- same problem. Even if he does, and he definitely does, Gerry won't admit it and will probably get self-conscious.

So Michael looks down at his boyfriend, curled up on the floor of their bedroom. He looks at his partner, with black streaks cutting a path down his cheeks where tears have ruined his eyeliner. He looks at the man he loves, who can weather so much pain and torment, who must have been truly hit where it hurts to end up in such a state.

And he says:

"You look like shit."

There's a pause. A heavy silence during which Gerard's exhausted eyes widen. Michael worries for a moment, frets as he always does, but then-

Then Gerry laughs.

It's a burst of laughter. Surprised, caught off guard. Escaping from his chest and making a break for freedom past a throat sore from sobbing. He uncurls a little, not completely but enough that Michael relaxes a bit as well. He wipes his tears with the sleeves of his shirt, unworried about black makeup staining blacker fabric. Gerard's guard had gone up the moment Michael opened the bedroom door. Now it's lowered, and Michael steps through it.

He sits down beside Gerry, joins him on the scratchy carpet. His heart jumps when Gerard immediately leans against him, puts his head on Michael's shoulder. Michael, as always, feels honored. Privileged. Blessed. Gerry is shaking a little, but he lets Michael lace their fingers together and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"I miss her." He finally admits with the hollow ruins of his voice. "I shouldn't miss her."

"That's not how grief works." Michael tells him softly. "Grief doesn't care about should or should not. It just… is."

"She was… horrible. To everyone, yeah but… she put me through hell. Literally. And she enjoyed it." He sucks in a breath through gritted teeth. Jolts with a swallowed sob. "I don't want to love her."

"Love isn't concerned with permission, unfortunately."

"I don't want to care about if she loved me back."

Oh, now that is something Michael is very familiar with.

"Love demands to be returned, regardless of its host. Or its target. It's painful, and unfortunate, but… it wouldn't be love if it were any different, I think." He doesn't know if he's saying the right thing. But he says it with love, and he hopes that's enough. "It isn't your fault."

Gerard goes very still, when he says that. Not the peaceful sort, but tense all over, coiled in preparation for fight or flight. Instinct. A shudder runs through him, runs through both of them with how closely they've become pressed together, and a very un-Gerry like sound escapes Gerard. Michael will not call it a whimper, not even in his own mind. Gerry would hate that.

The tears begin again, after that. Michael panics at first, but Gerard is still holding onto him, and despite the tears there's something about it that rings of catharsis rather than despair. Something long-buried finally able to take a breath.

Michael wonders if no one has ever told Gerard that before. If no one has ever said to him that he isn't to blame, that he wasn't responsible for his mother or her actions, that there is nothing he ever could have done to appease her or change her. He wonders, and he aches at the idea.

But he can't do anything to change that, now. All he can do is say it again, and again, and again. Insistent and certain, brooking no doubt or argument, until Gerry is able to believe it.

And until he does, Michael will hold onto that knowledge for him.


	9. "Have you been eating enough?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human Michael, mostly an introspective but still plenty of gerrymichael ♥ pls let me know what you think, i'm trying to shape his character more

Michael, in his own opinion, isn’t really good for much.

He isn’t stupid, but he’s not exactly smart. He spaces out at the worst moments and isn’t especially creative in any way that makes up for that. He isn’t physically fit, isn’t especially handsome, isn’t very charming or very funny. Well, he thinks he’s funny, but no one else ever seems to agree.

All in all, he isn’t _intolerable_ , but he is essentially the definition of “unremarkable.” No one is more aware of that than him. There is literally no incentive for people to keep him around and he knows it.

So he tries very hard to make up for it.

It started young. His parents worked a lot and he was an only child. His grades weren’t good enough to receive praise from teachers but they weren’t bad enough to get extra help. He had a few friends, sure, and one best friend (the fate of whom he tries so hard not to remember) but it was never really… enough. He couldn’t help but crave the attention of the grown-ups in his life. Something it seemed he could never have.

But then one day his mother asked him to bring his father a cup of tea. He did so, and when his father thanked him without looking and took the cup… His world changed. It was that easy? Hand someone some tea and they thank you? They _acknowledge_ you? He tested it at school, running errands for teachers and showing them he was keen to be helpful. Other kids teased him for being a teacher's pet, but that didn’t seem to matter when teachers started remembering his name.

That’s how he grew up. With his only worth being found in what he could do for others. It carries on as an adult. Nothing about himself is really important, so he works on supporting others and providing things that matter more than him. It usually keeps people around for a bit but ultimately it just ends up in him being used and then thrown away. That fact isn’t lost on him. He knows none of the people he works so hard to please really care about him so much as what he can do for him. But what is he supposed to do? It’s the only way to keep anyone in his life, and he can’t stand to be alone.

So he continues. He takes care of people. His parents are… no longer in his life, and the less said about that the better, but he has others. He has Gertrude, who he dotes on and skips lunch for and works overnight for and- Well, does everything he can for. She needs help, she’s frail and kind and sweet and he’s glad to do it. His heart swells whenever she thanks him. He also has Rosie, who always remembers his name and smiles brightly when she sees him coming in with exactly the right coffee order every day. He always refuses to let her pay him back, so maybe she’ll like him more.

He also, against all odds, has Gerry. His boyfriend. Partner. Someone he loves, _has_ loved, but never thought he could have. He has no idea what Gerry likes about him, why he bothers, why he’s sticking around, but Michael certainly tries his best to keep it up. He always makes extra food when he cooks because he knows Gerry doesn’t eat well or enough. He brings tea when Gerry seems stressed and offers comfort when he seems upset. He tries not to be too annoying, too clingy. He tries not to be obtrusive. He does his absolute best to be convenient and easy to love.

He doesn’t want Gerry to worry about him. Michael, above all things, does not want to be a bother. He doesn’t want to become more trouble than he’s worth, which is difficult when he isn’t worth very much to begin with. So he tries to hide when things are wrong, makes himself small when Gerry seems annoyed, puts his own needs last. The way he’s always lived, the way he’s always been. He isn’t important. He knows that.

Which is why he’s surprised when Gerard looks at him one day and asks:

“Have you been eating enough?”

Michael freezes. A rabbit caught in the highbeams. Braced to run from something clearly dangerous but paralyzed with fear. They’re sitting on the couch, Michael with his knitting and Gerry sketching idly while they watch a documentary on the most dangerous animals in Latin America.

“...Yes?” He tries, drawn out and unsure. Cautious. How could he not be? Gerry looks up at him, raises an eyebrow.

“Is that a question or an answer?”

“I uh, I don’t…” Michael remembers to blink, finally. His hands are shaking where they hold his knitting needles. “Why do you ask?”

“Dunno.” Gerry shrugs, looking away with a sudden uncertainty. “Just… that’s what people ask, right? When they care about someone? They ask if they’re doing alright? If they’re eating, sleeping, doing well? You ask me all the time.”

“Well, yeah, but that…” That’s because you’re important. “You don’t have to do that. If you don’t want to, I mean.”

“I do want to,” Gerry starts. “I just… It’s like, I care about you. And I wanna show that I care about you.”

“You don’t have to, though.”

“Michael, you’re my partner.”

“That doesn’t mean… You don’t have to waste your time.”

There’s a pause.

“Waste my time?” Gerry repeats, like Michael just said something baffling. He puts his sketchbook aside and Michael goes very still. He isn’t looking at Gerry anymore, averts his gaze to the television. “Michael, caring about you isn’t a waste of time.”

Michael can’t speak past the lump in his throat.

“Look, I know I’m… not great at this but,” Gerry pauses. “But I do love you. I’m absolute shit at showing it, but I do, and I’m trying to learn how but… I mean, the things you do are kinda all I have to go on.”

“You do enough.” He chokes, and he winces at the way his voice trembles. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“You’re worth more than that.” Gerard’s tone leaves no room for argument. It isn’t a suggestion, it’s a hard fact that he will not compromise on. The Earth is round, water is wet, and Michael is worth more than that. To Michael, this is the worst case scenario. If Michael starts asking for anything more than nothing, he’ll be asking for too much. He’s been here before. He knows how this goes.

A hand settles on his shoulder.

“Michael?” The tone is softer this time, tentative. “Michael, you’re shaking.”

He can’t answer. He can’t breathe. His vision blurs and it takes him a moment to realize tears are gathering.

Because Michael really, really loves Gerard, and he knows this is the beginning of the end.

Gerard’s other hand comes up. A swipe of a thumb catches one of the tears just as it falls, the palm warm on his face.

“Look at me?” He can never deny Gerry anything, especially not when he sounds so unsure. He looks. He shouldn’t have, though. The worry he finds in Gerry’s eyes makes the tears fall faster. Gerry starts to say something. Stops short. Tries again, stutters a bit, then tries a third time:

“Please tell me what’s wrong.”

And Michael can never deny him anything.

“... I don’t fret over people like I do because I care. I mean, I do care, but that isn’t… why I do it.” He admits, biting his lip. He looks away. He has to, to hold himself together. “It’s just… me making myself useful. So they’ll keep me around. You… you really don’t have to worry about that.” He laughs unsteadily, finally glances at Gerard. The expression on his face takes a moment to decipher. Confusion, certainly, and plenty of worry. But also something else. Something caught between a gentle sadness and incandescent rage. He doesn’t speak.

So Michael elaborates.

“I mean, my concern for you is genuine. Please don’t doubt that, I’m not… pretending to care so I can stay close to you. I just… I know I’m not really appealing? I don’t have a lot to offer, so I… try to make up for it. And in the past, whenever I become more trouble than I’m worth people tend to… drift away. If I dump too much of my baggage on them, or if I get too clingy, or if I stop being quite as helpful, or if I get too annoying, or if I ask too much of them-”

“Michael, no one is going to leave you for… for being a _person._ ” Gerard’s voice is shaking with something Michael cannot identify, but really hopes isn’t directed at him.

“But they have.” He explains softly.

The hand hasn’t left his cheek. It’s uncomfortable, really, because the tears have been falling and gathering beneath it where skin meets skin. But Michael still leans into the touch, because he knows Gerry will pull away soon. The silence stretches.

“I’m sorry.”

They both pause, realizing they’ve spoken at the same time.

“Don’t apologize,” Gerry tells him fiercely, his eyes burning with something that makes Michael’s heart stop for a moment. “Don’t. I’m glad you told me about this. Like, really, really, glad. God, Michael, I am so fucking sorry.”

Michael starts to stutter, starts to say that he doesn’t understand, but Gerry is still talking.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I’m sorry I didn’t… didn’t say something sooner, try to meet you halfway or something. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize something was wrong. I mean, I know you’re anxious a lot of the time but I kinda thought that was because we’re surrounded by monsters all the time, not because you thought I’d leave the moment you… I can’t even say ‘slip up,’ because this isn’t slipping up it’s just- Just being human.”

“It isn’t your fault-”

“I should have been paying attention.”

“You can’t read my mind, Gerry!”

“Michael, I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly. I promise, I won’t get mad at you.”

Well, that’s terrifying. Michael takes a steadying breath. So does Gerard.

“When I… tell you that I love you- which, I know I don’t say it often enough but when I _do_ … Do you believe me?” His voice breaks, towards the end. Michael couldn’t lie to him even if he wanted to.

“...People have told me that before, but… in the end they just loved the things I did for them.” He whispers. Gerry nods.

“... Thank you for your honesty.” He doesn’t sound thankful at all. “Can I hug you?”

“Please.” Michael breathes out before the whole question is asked, and arms are around him immediately. He falls into it, clings tightly, lets himself have this because he knows that he won’t have it for much longer.

“I don’t know what to do.” Gerry admits into Michael’s hair. “I don’t know how to… to make you feel better. I don’t know what I can say that would help you believe that I love you, or that I won’t leave. I want to help, but I… I really don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Michael,” there’s a desperation in Gerard’s tone that makes Michael’s stomach twist. “Michael, you’re upset. You’re hurting, you’ve _been hurting_ , and that fucking _matters_ to me. _You_ matter to me. No, I don’t _have_ to want to help you, I don’t _have_ to be furious with myself for not realizing sooner, I don’t _have_ to hate literally every fucking person who made you feel like you don’t matter. You’re right. I don’t have to do any of this.” He takes a deep breath. “But whether you believe it or not, I love you. So I’m going to keep caring, I’m going to keep being here, I’m going to keep wanting to help, and _nothing_ you say is going to stop me.”

For someone claiming he doesn’t know how to help, Gerard sure seems to know just the things to say.


	10. "Here, let me help you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I know I usually keep these short and sweet but I do need to talk about this one a bit. I know I wrote another fic with a similar premise of Gerry blowing up at Michael without really meaning to. This starts out very similar, but at its heart is completely different. In that fic, Gerry was projecting internalized toxic behaviours he learned from his mother. In this one they just, unfortunately, both have breakdowns at the same time. Gerry doesn't realize he's having a panic attack and freaks the fuck out, not knowing why he's freaking the fuck out. I explain this because I really, REALLY, don't want Gerry to come off as someone who's always yelling at his boyfriend. These moments are very rare for them and usually, with Gerry, once something bad happens he does everything he can to keep it from happening again. 
> 
> I'm very nervous about posting this one. I hope it doesn't like... ruin all of this for anyone. Idk why I feel like it will, but... Yeah, I hope it doesn't.
> 
> So yeah, tw for panic attacks.

Gerry tries so hard to be patient with Michael.

Their relationship is relatively new, and Gerry is relatively new to relationships in general, but he knew before getting into it that Michael is… nervous, to say the least. He frets. He hovers. He worries. He seems laid back, usually. At ease. Until someone needs something or seems displeased, and then suddenly he’s jumbled nerves and fluttering hands, trying to fix everything himself.

Gerry tries. He tries so, so hard to be patient with Michael.

Especially when they’re on the job. He knows all of this, the truth of the things hiding in the dark, is new to Michael. He realizes it takes adjusting to, for people who aren’t forced into it at a young age. He thinks they’re both doing pretty well with their new partnership, actually. Michael hasn’t gotten himself killed yet, and Gerard hasn’t gotten Michael killed yet, so that’s a good sign. So far so good, right? And Michael handles his own injuries pretty well. But when Gerry gets hurt, he tends to get a bit… insufferable.

Gerry tries. He really does. He tries to be patient.

But he’s already in pain. Already stressed out. That creature of the Slaughter had done a number on them, had almost killed Michael, had left Gerry feeling like his entire body is just one big bruise. He has a high pain tolerance, sure, but that doesn’t mean the pain doesn’t make him irritable.

Michael has been fretting the whole way to the apartment. Babbling on and on in a bit of a panic about- Gerry doesn’t know. His head is pounding and his ears are ringing. He can’t think straight. There’s a pressure building under his skin, an itching heat in his bones. He feels jittery and unsteady and vague. His chest feels tight. It’s all he can do to keep breathing, to keep quiet, to spare Michael from the boiling heat just beneath his skin, the sharp words at the tip of his tongue. Gerry is a nice guy, usually. He tries to be chill, tries to be kind, tries to be better than-

He tries to be better.

He tries. Usually, he succeeds.

Sometimes, though. Sometimes he fails.

They’re back at Michael’s apartment when Gerry finally snaps.

He just wants to lie down. Just wants to nap. He wants to be alone, in a dark and quiet room so he can lick his wounds with some semblance of pride intact. He wants to be able to wince without sending Michael into a frenzy. He wants to hiss in pain without worrying if it’ll push Michael into a panic attack. But Gerard has been silent the whole way home, and the silence has made Michael nervous.

Michael never shuts up when he’s nervous.

“You should lie down, really, but- Oh, no, sit down and I’ll get the first aid kit- and water, a glass of water or- or would you prefer tea? I could make some, but it will be a minute and- An ice pack, where do I keep the ice packs, why can I never find the ice packs?”

Gerry closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

He tries.

“I think I’m just going to lie down, actually.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, good idea, but-” Michael pops his head out from the freezer where he’s been looking for ice packs, sees Gerry trying to get some rubble out of his hair. He hurries over. “Here, let me help you-”

“Christ alive, Michael, would you stop?!” He doesn’t mean to smack Michael’s hand away. He hadn’t even realized Michael had gotten so close so quickly. But the back of his hand makes contact with the inside of Michael’s wrist with a soft slap. It isn’t hard, it doesn’t hurt either of them physically.

Michael still looks stricken. He pulls his hands back to his chest, knuckles white where they clutch each other to keep still.

“I don’t need water. I don’t need ice packs. I don’t need tea, and I don’t need the first aid kit. I need you to leave me alone. I’ve had a lot worse than this.” Usually, Michael would argue that it didn’t matter if he’d had worse. That that was all the more reason he deserved help now. Michael doesn’t say a word. “You need to stop spending your time worrying about me and worry more about yourself! You nearly got yourself _killed_ tonight and you’re wasting your time fretting over me?! What would have happened if I hadn’t gotten to you in time, Michael?!”

He doesn’t know when he started yelling. He doesn’t know why he’s yelling. 

He shouldn’t be yelling.

“You could have died.” He impresses, quieter but no more charged. His voice breaks on the words, the idea behind them too heavy for it to carry. It occurs to him that maybe the physical pain isn’t what’s making him so antsy, but well… he’s good at physical pain. The other kinds are trickier.

Michael isn’t averting his eyes. It would be better, Gerry thinks, if he did. As it is, Michael is looking right at him not unlike how he had looked at the many-bladed killing machine that had charged at them that night. Not with the same near-death-experience panic, but with fear. Michael is afraid, and Gerard is the thing that’s scaring him.

Despite the heat always being on in the apartment, despite still wearing his trench coat and a night of heavy physical activity, Gerry feels cold. So cold his fingers and toes are tingling, numb.

Michael bites his lip and finally looks away, looks downward in shame. Gerry isn’t sure what he expected after his outburst, but Michael hurrying past him into the bathroom and locking the door behind himself isn’t it. Gerard knows he should apologize. That he should knock on the door, talk to Michael, explain that he isn’t really mad at him and that he’s just… Just tired and hurting and tired and frustrated and tired and crashing from the adrenaline rush and tired and terrified that he could have lost Michael and absolutely exhausted.

He does not knock on the door. He does not talk to Michael. He does not explain.

He goes into their bedroom- Michael’s bedroom, technically- and drops himself onto the bed. The impact agitates the not-inconsiderable pain that he’s in, but he doesn’t mind much.

At the moment, he’s fairly certain he deserves it.

\----------------------

Gerard has slept for thirteen hours, according to the clock on the bedside table. He automatically reaches for the other side of the bed as he swims to consciousness, finds nothing but cold sheets. He lifts his head, confused. Everything is just the same as it was when he went to sleep.

Meaning thirteen hours went by and Michael hadn’t come to bed.

Gerry’s hand curls against the pillow, clutches the soft fabric tightly as he remembers the previous night. He remembers the sound when he had smacked Michael’s hand away. He remembers wide, watery eyes looking at him with the exact feeling Gerry was always trying to protect him from.

He feels awful. He feels nauseous. He feels a headache coming on.

Above all, he still feels exhausted.

He almost goes back to bed.

Except it’s Michael’s bed. It’s Michael’s room. And Gerard is the asshole who had blown up at him so spectacularly that the poor guy felt he wasn’t allowed to sleep there. If Michael feels he can’t sleep in his own bed, then Gerard certainly isn’t going to enjoy it without him.

He doesn’t see Michael when he leaves the room. He does see a blanket covering a Michael-shaped lump on the couch though. The figure under the blanket is curled into a tight ball, facing the back of the couch. Gerry approaches tentatively, unsure what to say but knowing he has to say something.

He sits down on the arm of the couch near Michael’s feet.

“Hey,” he starts.

Michael jumps about a mile out of his skin with a yelp and almost falls off the couch. He flails for a moment, manages to catch himself. He looks at Gerry with wide eyes. He doesn’t seem like he’s been crying recently, so that’s… good. That’s good, right? Gerry hopes so, anyway.

“You uh… You didn’t have to stay out here.” Gerard starts. “It’s your room.”

“... I… didn’t think you’d want me there.” Michael tells him after a moment, wringing the blanket in his hands and looking at a spot on the floor.

“It’s your room,” Gerry repeats. Michael just shrugs.

“That’s alright. You were hurt. I wasn’t going to make you move to the couch.” Arguing with Michael about that would get him nowhere, so he addresses the other elephant in the room.

“I didn’t… not want you there.”

“Gerry,” Michael sighs heavily. “I know what you’re trying to do but, it isn’t necessary. “I was being a pest and I’m-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” Gerry cuts him off, not unkindly, and slides off of the arm of the couch to sit closer to Michael. “Seriously, don’t. I’m in the wrong here without question. You don’t have to let me off the hook. I don’t want you to let me off the hook. You didn’t deserve to be yelled at.”

“But-”

“I know I scared you.” He puts it out there. Rips off the band-aid. “And I’m sorry. I… I never wanted to- I mean, that’s not- I want you to be safe with me, and-”

“Wait, what?” The genuine confusion in Michael’s voice shuts Gerry up. “I didn’t feel _unsafe_. You didn’t- You weren’t _threatening_ me, Gerry, I didn’t think you were going to _hurt_ me. I just… Thought you were very angry at me and might cut me out of your life. Shut me out. That scared me. I thought- I actually thought you were sitting down to break up with me just now. Did you… think I was scared of you?”

Gerry ducks his head, hides behind his curtain of hair.

“Maybe.”

Michael laughs. That makes Gerry look up, offended, to see Michael trying to stifle his amusement.

“Sorry- Sorry, it’s just… How could I ever be scared of you?” 

“Because, Michael, I was-”

“You were having a panic attack, Gerry.” Michael sighs, the laughter tapering off into something more serious. “I think it was building up the whole way home. It was the same for me. But our… responses to that sort of thing seem to clash.”

“I wasn’t having a-” He starts to protest, but when he thinks about it… About the building pressure in his bones, about the pounding in his head, about the tightness in his chest and the buzzing in his ears… When he thinks about not being able to control his emotions, not being able to think clearly or logically, being so wired and then so utterly drained- When he thinks about how hard he was shaking-

“Holy shit, I was having a panic attack.”

Michael just nods, smiling at him in sympathy. Gerry swallows thickly.

“...Still, though.”

“Fine. If apologizing makes you feel better-”

“It does.”

“-Then I accept your apology.”

“You don’t have to accept it.”

“But I’m doing it anyway.” Michael reaches out, beckons Gerry to come closer. He does, and lets Michael pull him in to lie down together. “...You apologized for thinking you scared me. But, I’m also sorry for scaring you.”

“You didn’t-”

“You didn’t see your face when the creature came at me. You didn’t see your face when you started talking about how I almost died.” Michael takes a deep breath, then speaks with something between confusion and awe. “I’ve never seen you so terrified.”

Gerry buries his face against Michael’s neck.

“Yeah, well. Nothing has ever really… scared me that much.”

“We fight literal fear entities.”

“Yeah but that’s just the same shit, different day. But if something happened to you…”

Michael’s arms tighten around him. Gerry closes his eyes.

They are both far too exhausted to say anything more.


	11. "Why are you limping?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human Michael again, pre-relationship. Not everything is monsters and horror. Sometimes accidents just happen.

Gerard and Michael are friends. There’s no real denying that at this point, though Gerry has tried. They’re friends, they hang out, they joke around and laugh, they talk into the late hours of the night about things they’d never tell anyone else. It’s incredibly dangerous. For Michael, anyway, Gerry is in no more danger than he usually is.

He’s trying to keep Michael at arms length. For his own good. He’s trying to keep him in the dark about certain things, not immerse him as fully into the world of horror as Gerard is. To keep him safe. To keep him alive.

He should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

Nothing seems wrong when he gets back to the Archives after more Leitner-focused field work. Gertrude is still playing the part of the helpless grandma, Rosie is still smiling brightly at everyone who comes in, and Michael is still sneaking energy drinks between cups of tea (a bad habit he picked up from Gerry) and doting on Gertrude.

Soon after his return, though, Gerard notices something.

Michael perks up when he sees Gerry. Smiles brightly, stands up to greet him, hurries over to ask how things went. Pretty typical stuff. What isn’t typical is that Michael is very noticeably favouring his right leg. He seems to forget about it for a moment, in his excitement over Gerry returning. He gets exactly one step away from his desk and almost falls over.

Gerry lurches forward. He catches Michael by the elbow, pretends not to notice the way the other mans face goes completely pink.

“Why are you limping?” He frowns, something uneasy turning over in his stomach. His heart is in his throat. Did something happen while he was away? Was there an attack on the Archives? His eyes search Michael’s face for other injuries, for bruising or cuts or burst blood vessels or spirals in his eyes. Nothing. Just freckles, but those have always been there.

But Michael almost fell. Something is wrong with Michael’s leg, or hips, or- or something. Something hurt him, or someone, and whoever or whatever it is had better pray Gerard never finds them. He isn’t a violent guy, despite his mother's best efforts, but if he ever gets his hands on the thing that hurt Michael-

His thoughts are cut off as Michael laughs in that way that he does, shaking his head.

“Oh, just me being… Well. You know.” He smiles up at Gerard, who tries to hear what Michael is saying past his own pounding heart. “Went down to Artefact Storage, put something down there without any sort of incident… Got out just fine! Then I fell up the stairs on my way back up. Pulled a muscle.”

It’s strange, feeling like you’re drowning outside of water. Or it would be if Gerry hadn’t gone up against the Vast and the Buried so many times. It’s a relief to be able to pull air back into his lungs again, all the same. He sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment as relief washes over him. He tries to calm down, and when he opens his eyes again Michael is watching him with a look Gerry doesn’t want to identify as fondness.

“You really need to be more careful, Michael. What’s the point of living through the sort of shit that happens here if you go and break your neck on the stairs?” He manages to sound casual. Calm. He’s pretty proud of himself for that. Michael makes an indignant sound that Gerard fails not to find adorable.

“I didn’t break my neck!”

“Why is it this sort of thing always seems to happen to you while I’m gone?”

“Cause if you were here, you’d’ve caught me.” Michael chuckles, cheeks still dusted the prettiest red Gerry has ever seen. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, mouth suddenly very dry. “Yeah, I would.” And he did, didn’t he? Just a moment ago.

He’s very aware, suddenly, of how close together they’re standing. His hand is still on Michael’s elbow, his other hand at his hip. Michael’s hands are resting on Gerry’s chest where he’d caught himself. 

It’s suddenly very hard to breathe.

He steps away quickly, at the same time that Michael stumbles backwards to lean on his desk. Michael’s face is scarlet, and Gerard is sure his matches.

“I uh… I need to- to go brief Gertrude on uh- yeah. I’ll um, I’ll see you?”

“Yeah! Yeah, uh- see you!”

“Be careful on the stairs. I don’t want to break my knuckles trying to fight them if they beat you up again.”

That makes Michael laugh, at least, though it sounds strangely strangled.

“I’ll try my best.”

Gerard lingers for another moment, because it’s hard to leave when he could stay there and keep looking at Michael, but he still manages to escape quickly enough. He feels lightheaded. He feels warm. He feels-

He isn’t sure what he feels. Just short of pleasant, but not quite painful. Strangled and breathless, heart pounding like he’s run a marathon. He wonders, what would Michael have done if Gerard had kissed him?

But that’s a dangerous thought. Dangerous for Michael, anyway. So Gerry tries his best to stop thinking about how nice it would be to kiss Michael against the wall until he’s as breathless as Gerard feels.

He fails spectacularly.


	12. "You're really pale..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We back in the spiral lads
> 
> This chronologically takes place before every other Spiral!Michael fic in this series except for "That definitely looks broken."
> 
> Maybe after this series is done I'll sort them in chronological order lmao

It isn't the way it used to be.

It isn't not the way it used to be.

Kissing Michael used to be soft. Michael, when he was human, was gentle by nature, and that was something Gerry treasured. Something he had never had. Something almost forbidden to him. New. Michael still tries to be gentle with him, puts a lot of effort into it. But gentleness is no longer its nature. Its nature is not natural at all, and gentleness is just short of beyond its abilities. It is just to the side of sharp, just to the left of uncomfortable. It hurts to touch just as it hurts to look at.

It tries, though. That's more than most have ever done for Gerry, and he appreciates the effort.

It makes the same sort of sounds Michael used to make. Gerard still remembers them vividly. Soft, quiet, desperate, needy, absolutely maddening. The sounds are still maddening. Literally. Michael as it is now still gasps against Gerry's lips, still makes the smallest of sounds when Gerry runs a hand through its hair. It moans the same way when Gerard kisses its neck. It whines the same way when he pulls away too soon. But it's all wrong, like someone recorded Michael while he was still alive and is playing back the distorted audio.

Gerry really hopes that isn't the case.

He doesn't think it is. The thing that Michael is now, it looks at him with such fondness. Like it's literally in pain from the amount of love bursting from it. Maybe it is. Love is as counter to its nature as it gets, after all. Maybe it hurts to care about Gerard as it is now. And yet it persists.

Michael used to be too nervous to take the lead, to take anything he wanted. Always too worried it wouldn't be what Gerry wanted. Too anxious about doing something wrong. Now? Now it doesn't care. It takes what it wants. It will stop if Gerry wants to, sure, but it isn't afraid of Gerry stopping it. It isn't afraid of being wrong. Because it is wrong, now, to its very core.

So it presses Gerry into the mattress now, the same way Gerry used to do to Michael. His lips sting from kissing it, from dragging across the angles of Michael's mouth. His skin prickles where incorrect hands slide beneath his shirt. His hair stands on end when it sighs, content. Its nose presses against his cheek, an affectionate nuzzle, and it feels like the dull end of a knife being dragged along his face. It doesn't cut him though. It is trying to be gentle.

It pulls away from his lips to kiss his cheek. Then it keeps kissing his face, seemingly overwhelmed. Gerry weathers its affection. It does this sometimes, when it is overcome with feelings it cannot parse. Just showers Gerry with saccharine gestures until it gets enough of the sappy stuff out of its system. That's something that carried over from Michael. He used to bury his face in the crook of Gerry's neck, catching his breath and holding on to Gerard so tightly it would hurt. Michael would be just on the edge of tears. It worried Gerry the first few times, until Michael explained with no short amount of embarrassment that he was just… overwhelmed. With feelings. With love.

This new being may or may not be Michael, but it definitely loves Gerry.

"Are you alright?" It asks quietly, pulling back to look down at him. "You're really pale."

"I'm fine." He'd be better if it kept kissing him, but whatever.

"We can stop, if you're uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than is to be expected." It laughs briefly. Always laughing. It makes Gerry wonder if monsters can have defense mechanisms.

"I'm really alright. It's just… a lot."

"Yes." It nods sagely. "I am indeed a lot."

"No, just…" He can't tell it. He can't look at this thing that loves him to the point of its own detriment and explain that he is thinking about who it used to be. That he's been thinking about that person the whole time. That he's constantly comparing the two, trying desperately to find similarities to prove this is still him. Because this being is not enough on its own. Not if it isn't still Michael somewhere in there.

He can't tell it all of that. But it knows. He knows it knows, and he knows that he hurts it more than it has ever hurt him.

"I'm sorry." He tells it.

"It's alright." It tells him, smiling. It leans down, kisses his cheek so sweetly that Gerard aches with it.

He wonders if maybe he's wrong about which of them is really the monster.


	13. "Did you just go throw up?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of vomit.
> 
> If Gerry gets a sick fic then so does Michael

"Why did you let me sleep in?!"

"Because you're sick and you need rest?" Gerard leans against the kitchen counter, watching with unconcealed amusement as Michael hurries around the apartment in a jumbled, rushed approximation of his morning routine. "You're going to make yourself worse if you carry on like this." He warns in an almost sing-song tone.

"I'm not going to make myself worse because I'm not sick!" Michael insists despite his very obvious fever. "Even if I was, protocol states we give at least two hours notice-" Michael glowers at him when he scoffs. Protocol. As if either of them could ever get fired. "Two hours notice in the event of an absence!"

Gerry has to admit, it's impressive that Michael's voice can pitch that high with panic when it's so ragged he can barely talk. He wonders if Michael was ever in a choir. He'd make for a talented falsetto.

"Yeah, and I called 'em three hours ago." Gerry holds up three fingers, grinning in a way that would likely earn him a smack from anyone but Michael. "'Cause I knew you'd try to use that as an excuse."

Michael is fuming. Gerard wonders if he might have earned himself a smack regardless.

"I'm going in."

"You're really not."

"You can't stop me!"

Now, _that_ makes Gerry laugh. He's sure Michael would be red with frustration and fury if he weren't already red with a fever.

"Okay, first off: yeah. Yeah, I could actually, if I wanted to. But second: I'm not stopping you. You're an adult, I'm not the boss of you, but I _am_ your boyfriend and I know for a fact that if you try to leave like this you'll get ten steps out the door before keeling over."

"I will not!" Michael actually stamps his foot. Gerry has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from cackling too loudly.

"You really will, though." He snickers, muffled by his own fingers.

"You're such a-!" Michael's scarlet face drains into an impressive blanche. He hurries away, stumbling into the bathroom. Gerard waits patiently. He pours up a glass of water, allowing Michael some privacy while the poor idiot retches in the bathroom. He hears a flush, the sink, the sounds of aggressive tooth-brushing, and then there's Michael. Leaning heavily in the bathroom doorway, looking utterly miserable. Gerry, in his endless mercy, walks over and hands him the water.

"Did you just go throw up?" Gerard asks despite knowing the answer. Michael just sips the water, abashed. Not receiving a response, Gerry sighs. "Michael, you're sick-"

"I still have to go in."

"Michael-"

"What if something happens?" Michael asks, shaky and exhausted. "What if the one day I'm gone, Gertrude falls? What if she breaks her hip? What if she has a stroke or a heart attack? Or what if something attacks and she gets hurt? What if she dies and it's because I wasn't there when she needed me?"

Gerard does not have a great track record with the female authority figures in his life. He's starting to put Gertrude in the same category as his mother, though, with everything she puts Michael through.

"Gertrude can take care of herself." The incredulous look Michael gives him has him changing strategies. Gertrude has him too tightly wrapped around her finger for that. "There are other employees. There's Rosie. They'll help if something happens."

"... Will you take care of her today? I know you think she doesn't need it, but just while I'm not there-"

"Me?" He raises an eyebrow at that. "Fuck that, I'm staying home too."

"What? Why?" His bleary eyes blink, wide and lost. Gerry can't resist: he ruffles Michael's hair.

"Because you're _sick_ , dummy. I'm not gonna leave you home alone like this. I spent all morning Googling how to take care of sick people, I have like five tabs of WebMD open. I have soup on the stove literally as we speak." He gestures behind him to the kitchen. "I'm staying."

"But Gertrude-"

" _Gertrude_ has gotten on just fine for the past few centuries. She can handle a day or two without you." He starts trying to lead Michael back to bed, but the last sentence has him sputtering in indignation. 

" _Two_ days?!"

"Maybe three." He shrugs as Michael chokes on nothing. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."


	14. "Why aren't you eating?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Food" mention tw, but uh... it isn't actual food so to speak.
> 
> Spiral Michael tries its best.

Michael, when he was human, used to be a pretty passable cook.

Michael, as a not-human, is not.

Gerard just doesn't have the heart to tell it that.

He isn't… sure what went into the dish in front of him, but he's fairly certain not all of it is even edible. The first few times Michael tried this, Gerry thought it was genuinely trying to poison him. When he confronted it though, it was so genuinely confused. Absolutely lost. It had no idea why Gerry would not be able to eat pure mercury when it 'looks so shiny and appetizing.'

It's improved since then. Mostly through trial and error. Cooking things, telling Gerry everything that's in it, and taking note of what bits could kill him. Usually most of them. It never seems discouraged though, just trying again. By now there are less fatal bits, less poison and less non-food items, but still… none of it really goes together. 

"Why aren't you eating?" Michael asks with something like resignation. "I followed a recipe this time. Step-by-step! I didn't experiment even a little! It has to be edible!"

Gerard feels bad for it, but can't help how incredulous he sounds.

"The recipe called for you to mix chocolate and ketchup?"

Michael stares at him for a long moment, then looks down at the questionable dish. Its brow furrows in something like confusion. Gerry's frontal lobe twinges at the sight.

"No, it… didn't. But I didn't put- not _intentionally!_ " It insists, blurring at the edges as it becomes frustrated. "I remember _thinking_ about it, because humans love chocolate and you put ketchup on everything-"

"Not on chocolate."

"-But I didn't _actually_ do it!"

"You did though." Gerry pokes at the mountain of tomato paste with his fork. Michael deflates. Literally. It goes flat and two-dimensional where it sits across from him.

"I didn't… mean to." It sounds like it might cry. Gerry isn't sure what the crying would sound like, considering how unsettling its laugh is, but he doesn't really want to hear it and find out.

"Hey, it's alright. I appreciate the effort." He reaches across, tries to take its hand, but finds he can't distinguish it from the table except for the difference in texture. Michael tries to reciprocate, but its hand is still flat and folds over Gerard's like soggy construction paper. "But you know I can feed myself right?"

"Yes." It admits begrudgingly.

"Then why are you so determined to cook for me? There are other ways we can… bond or whatever, if that's what you're aiming for." He watches carefully as Michael stares at their hands. Slowly, its own begins to fill out and take a proper three dimensional shape where it's wrapped around Gerry's.

"I used to be able to- or… Michael used to do it. He used to cook for you." It tells him miserably, and yeah. Yeah, that sure is a fact it just said. A fact that forces Gerry to take a moment, look away and wrestle with his grief just so he can continue this conversation. 

"Yeah. Yeah, he did. But that doesn't mean you have to. You don't… have to be him. You don't have to be the same. I know you can't be. It's alright." Michael is suspiciously silent for a moment, staring at their hands. Something occurs to Gerry, and he smacks himself for not putting it together ages ago because isn't it just like Michael to think like this? "You know I'm… okay with the differences now right? I know I was… pretty awful to you about it for a while there, but it really is okay. Sure, he cooked for me. Sure, you can't. And that's perfectly fine."

More silence. Michael looks like it's literally chewing on the words it wants to say.

"... The more ways I differ, the harder it will be for you to love me." It eventually forces the words out, and something like blood drips from its lips at the confession. A painful truth from a being built of lies. It wipes the not-blood quickly, as if Gerry won't notice how much it hurts itself for his sake.

"... And that's where you're identical. Exactly the fucking same." Gerry sighs, runs his free hand back through his hair. "Of course that would be what carried over."

"What-"

"Michael always thought my love was conditional." Gerard manages, squeezing Michael's hand so tightly it would likely hurt a human. It dulls its edges so he won't cut himself on it. "I know he did. Right up until the end. No matter what I said or what I did… he always thought it was just a matter of time. A matter of saying or doing the wrong thing. A matter of me getting bored."

He looks at the Michael in front of him, right in the Fresnel lens of its eyes. He knows their are tears in his own.

"But that was never true. He was _important_ to me." He sounds absolutely wrecked, even to his own ears. It doesn't hold a candle to how it feels to be talking about him. "I loved him. That was never conditional, never up for debate. It was never in question for me. It would never change, _could_ never change. It… hasn't changed."

"But I have. I've changed."

"Yeah. And I love you." He tells it, watches the way it begins to fray, watches it try to hold itself together. " _I love you._ As you are now. It doesn't matter to me if you can cook. This? Us? It isn't conditional for me. You don't have to earn it by forcing yourself to be something you literally _cannot_ be. I don't love you any less for what you are."

"But before-"

"I didn't love you before. I'll admit that. I... couldn't. The loss was too fresh, the anger was too raw, and I couldn't see you past the memory of him." He isn't ashamed to admit it. He doesn't think there was any other way he could have responded at the time, that there was any other way he could have handled it. Not then. Not after everything. 

"But you still love him." It sounds desperate. For what, Gerry has no clue, but it stings where its voice hits his ears like biting wind.

"Yeah. I do. Always will." He chokes on the lump in his throat. Takes a deep breath. "But I love you too, now."

There's a moment where it just looks at him. It's eyes shimmering, literally, and spilling over with tears that audibly hiss as they fall. It opens its mouth. Closes it again. In the end it just clutches Gerry's hand in both of its own, tight as it dares, and bows its head. Rests its forehead against Gerry's knuckles. It's shaking, deep rolling tremors trying to break it apart. It's barely holding on.

Gerry brings his free hand up to pet its hair. It doesn't nick his finger, because above all else Michael does not want to hurt him.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that. It doesn't matter.

He'll stay there as long as Michael needs him.


	15. "________? You're bleeding... Really bad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canon-typical blood, gore, and violence. I tried not to be too graphic while still communicating the reality of the situation. Please be safe. No detailed descriptions of such things but a lot of descriptions of how they feel.

They stare into the abyss.

The abyss does not stare back, as this particular sort of abyss possesses no sentience or eyes with which to stare. What it does possess, however, is a book. A very particular book that they need.

This abyss does not have eyes. It has other things. Dangerous things. Not teeth or claws but something parallel to them and just as skilled in breaking flesh. This abyss causes harm. That is a fact of its existence.

That's what Gerry tells him anyway, but to Michael it just looks like a very dark… bowl? Vessel? Some sort of fancy, ornate dish containing nothing but pitch black. Gerry says that this sort of thing is pretty typical for the cult-y Entities. Still, Michael takes it incredibly seriously when Gerard says it is dangerous to them. He pictures the worst when he says it can and will harm them if they touch it. Gerry knows these things, and the tremor of tension in his hands as he places the bowl on their kitchen table speaks of anxiety.

The first aid kit is already there, unpacked and ready to use. They've laid towels out all over the floor and across the tabletop, as if they were doing some sort of messy craft project. Like normal couples do. Michael knows, though, that they aren't there to catch paint. They're there because Gerard is going to reach into that vicious, viscous abyss. He is going to grab the book it holds within. It will not let the book go without a fight. The towels will hopefully keep Gerard's blood off of the tiles. Easier cleanup, he says.

Michael feels sick.

Gerry has taken his coat off. He's wearing a black tank top, no gloves because it would just slither inside of them. He is wearing his least favourite jeans. He doesn't want to ruin anything with this. Nothing but himself, anyway. Maybe he considers himself already ruined. Maybe he just wants to be. Michael doesn't like either possibility. He doesn't like that Gerry faces unimaginable agony so often that he's used to it. He doesn't like that Gerry doesn't think twice about putting himself in harm's way. He doesn't like the grim determination that has set into Gerard's expression. He doesn't like the way he stares into the abyss hatefully, resentfully. Dreadfully.

Michael really, really doesn't like this.

"So, you just… reach in and grab it?" He prods. Gerry sighs.

"Yeah. I mean, for all intents and purposes it's just a book in a bowl." He grimaces. "A very angry, bloodthirsty, possessive bowl."

"So like reaching for something with a wolverine between you and it. The act itself is easy. The thing in the way is what makes it hard."

"Exactly."

"It won't… kill you, will it?" He knows there's an edge of desperation to his voice. He doesn't hide it. Gerard deserves to know someone cares.

Gerard shrugs.

Michael really, really, reallyreally _reallyreally_ doesn't like this.

So, he does the only logical and reasonable thing in this situation. 

He plunges his hand into the supernatural demonic-eldritch murder-bowl.

Gerry's shout of alarm hits him at the same time as the pain. He expected something sharp. The way Gerry described it was like sticking your hand in a bowl of razor blades, but that isn't it at all. It isn't stabbing or slicing. It's ripping. Tearing. Devouring.

Michael chokes back a sob, reaches deeper into the bowl. The dish itself looks shallow but he's almost to his elbow now. Gerry is shouting something, hovering, wanting to pull him out but not risking jostling him. He doesn't want to make this worse.

Michael doesn't think it could be worse, really. But then, Michael is wrong a lot of the time.

The very tips of his fingers brush against something solid. He would cry with relief if he weren't already crying from the sheer agony of it. Every instinct tells him to forget it, to pull his hand out and get as far from the pain as possible. But if he doesn't feel this, Gerard will feel it instead.

He feels around for the edges of the book. Doesn't stop when he finds injury instead. Gerry has felt enough pain in his life, and will likely feel much more before the end. Michael can spare him this, at least. Make this a misery Gerard never has to shoulder. He'll do it himself this time.

He grabs the book.

If he thought it was bad going in, getting out is worse. The thing in the bowl doesn't want to let the book go, doesn't want to let him go. A strangled gasp escapes him as it targets his joints, his knuckles, trying to make him drop it. He holds on. Gerard's hands are on him now, pulling him away from the bowl. Michael does his best not to drop the book or pass out.

He doesn't quite manage the latter.

The haze of trauma lurks in the corners of him, circling, waiting for its pound of flesh. It will have to wait, Michael thinks. He hasn't much flesh left at this point. His back hits Gerry's chest as he's pulled away. Arms wrap around him tightly from behind, strong and sure and shaking. Clutching. The book drops onto one of the towels. Gerard's face is buried against his shoulder, his chest heaving with air as if he was the one who had just faced off with a monster. He doesn't let go of Michael for a moment. Michael appreciates that.

But action needs to be taken. Carefully, Gerry eases away from behind him. He lingers a moment, like he doesn't want to let go, and then he's gone. Michael fades. A pillow being shoved under his head jostles him back into awareness. His whole arm aches, stings, burns, and he's glad he wasn't stupid enough to use his dominant hand.

"Michael? You're bleeding…" Gerry tells him needlessly, strangled and shattered. He pulls in a shuddering breath. It hitches, and he continues hoarsely: "Really bad."

Michael hums in acknowledgement.

"Just- try to stay conscious. This is gonna suck."

He makes contact with the arm.

Michael wishes for a word more powerful than agony. A name he can put to this feeling. As it is, all he can do is sit in it and grit his teeth. A scream works its way up his throat, claws at his voicebox for release, but he won't let it out. Sobs build up beneath his shoulders, in the hollow places within his ribcage. They will stay there. He breathes deeply. He exhales. He stays conscious, because Gerard asked him to.

"You don't have to suffer in silence for my sake." Gerry snaps, because he knows Michael too well. Maybe he's cleaning the wounds. Michael doesn't know. He hasn't looked at the damage, and doesn't plan to. He can't feel what's happening. He can't feel anything beyond the pain. It suffocates every other part of him.

Gerry cuts through it.

"You shouldn't have done that." He seethes, and for all that Michael tries to keep from making people angry… he can't find it in himself to be upset about it this time. "It was a stupid thing to do. Reckless, dangerous-"

"You were gonna do it."

"I do a _lot_ of inadvisable things, Michael!"

"You shouldn't have to do all of them, all the time." His voice is wrecked. He wonders if he's been screaming, or if it's just the damage done by keeping such sounds inside.

"I'm used to it!" He's never heard Gerard sound like this. He turns his head, wondering what expression goes with it. Gerry isn't look at him, is focused on the arm that Michael won't outwardly acknowledge, hands moving quickly. There is something frantic in his posture. Something desperate.

"I know," is all Michael says. Gerry lifts his head enough to look him in the eyes. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are damp. His mouth is set in a grim downturn. Michael blinks slowly, blearily. He repeats: "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So originally this was going to be a completely different thing. I'll post that unfinished one on tumblr in case anyone wants to see it, but it's in the trash other than that.


	16. "That looks infected."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes... doors that have always been there... are worse
> 
> TW for corruption and a corpse

Corpses are not generally considered a pleasant sight. This one, though? Really brings that to another level.

It's almost artistic, Gerry thinks. So grotesque that it nearly wraps right back around into a disgusting sort of beauty. It doesn't quite manage, though. The Corruption never does. Ruination can be lovely, yes, but the Corruption ruins even that. It might be Gerry's least favourite of the lot, not counting Desolation. Or the Eye.

He eventually has to look away. Even for him, there's only so long a guy can look at a carpet of beetles essentially eating a corpse. His skin is crawling. The corpse is writhing with the mass it feeds, laughing with a quiet delight.

"Jesus Christ." Gerard sighs, putting down the can of gasoline so he can have a much needed cigarette. He holds it in his mouth, shields the flame with one hand and lights up with the other.

"That looks infected." A drawn out sigh of a sentence. Three words but it stretches them so far, not unlike how it stretches itself. Its body, its existence, its hallways. It settles itself, as best as it can ever be settler, beside him. It is watching the body intently. There is no longer a cigarette in his mouth, or a carton in his pocket.

"Not for long." He promises, not bothering to whine about the smokes. He picks up the gasoline, but a hand stops him.

He calls it a hand but, well…

It is not what it is.

"I could do it." It offers with a smile that Gerry does not return. He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. Questioning. Michael, as usual, provides no answers.

It's acting like it wants to help him. It keeps offering support. It keeps hanging around, asking to stay. It keeps doting and fawning and pining. It keeps fretting, in its own ways. It acts like it cares about him.

It is not what it is, Gerry reminds himself. It is not what it is. If it is a monster, does that mean it is not a monster? If it is untrustworthy, does that mean it's trustworthy? He doesn't know this thing. He cannot know this thing. It is impossible, unreality made not-flesh, and to know it would unmake them both. There is no way for him to know it won't sabotage him. There is no way to tell for sure if it truly intends to help him. It could laugh in his face and make things so much worse. It could be trying to take the Corruption down a peg just to fill its place with its own brand of horror. It could set him on fire instead, just for fun.

He hands it the gasoline.

It might be the stupidest thing he has ever done in his life. Considering his life until now, that is truly saying something. It looks utterly delighted. He hopes that doesn't bode poorly.

"Must it be burning?" It asks, the gas can dangling from its fingers.

"Yeah. Best thing for it, next to decontamination processes." He sighs as it hesitates. "Look, you don't have to do it. I can-"

"No!" It jerks back as he reaches for the gasoline, bends in a way his eyes can't follow. He slams his hands over his ears, hopes they aren't bleeding. The thing it spoke with was not a voice. He scowls at it as he lowers his hands, but stops short of snapping at it. "No, I'll do it."

"Michael if you don't want to do it-"

"I do!"

"Liar."

"Yes?" It tilts its head, smiling expectantly. Like he just called its name.

New Michael, same bad jokes.

The smile doesn't leave, but it turns its gaze from Gerard and towards the corpse. It hums in thought, long and just to the left of musical.

"These ones… they breed so very quickly." It tells him, like that's something he doesn't know. "It only takes one. Just one tiny, insignificant, puny little insect and soon enough…" it gestures to the disgusting display, palm up and also down, fingers splayed and bend and far too long.

"What, me ending up as beetle food not a part of your plans?"

"Not particularly."

"'Course. Can't let Corruption have me." Gerry scoffs, shoving his hands in pockets. "'Spose it's cause you wanna claim me for your own fucked up hellscape?"

Michael seems to seriously consider this.

"That would be easier." He eventually concedes.

"Easier?"

"It would be easier in my hallways than out here in the world, with all the work you do and the complete disregard for your own safety."

" _What_ would be easier, Michael?"

"I will burn the beetle's now." It tells him, stepping through a nearby door that hadn't been there until just then. Gerard watches as it leaves. He waits. The door closes. He blinks and it's gone.

The beetle's each, individually, burst into tiny spirals of flame. The smoke twists and turns as it rises, thick and full of something he can't look at for too long.

He doesn't risk breathing any of it in.

He leaves, through the door that had been there the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this one doesn't rly measure up to the others but it's 4am and i have work to wake up for so


	17. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I can't just write Gerry being soft for Michael over and over and over again.
> 
> Also Me: Literally the only thing worth writing is Gerry being soft for Michael.

Michael used to wonder how Gerry could handle pain so well. He always seems to learn about his injuries after the fact, horrified both with the wound and with Gerard's attitude towards it. He couldn't imagine it. Michael could spend all day wincing at a papercut. Then there's Gerry, almost getting ripped to pieces and acting like nothing happened.

Michael understands now.

He understands how the numbness sets in. He understands how the pain gets tuned out. It's like when he first grew his hair out. At first he couldn't stand how it brushed along his neck, was always scratching or jumping, thinking something was crawling on him. Eventually he adapted. He doesn't even notice anymore, usually, and when he does notice it doesn't rank as something to pay attention to.

The work they do leads to a lot of pain. The more often something hurts him, the less he notices. The less he cares. It still hurts, some more than others, but it doesn't seem notable at all. Not worth mentioning, even when he does notice. Even when it edges closer into agony, stark and striking and impossible to ignore. Still, he tries. Because it isn't worth bothering with. So when one of the Web's minions drives a knife into him just below his shoulder and drags it down nearly to his elbow, he doesn't let himself shout. He doesn't let himself flinch or wince or scream. It isn't worth it. At this point, he's definitely had worse. So they take care of the creature, kill it good and dead, make sure there are no others. They do their job, and it goes well for the most part.

He doesn't mean to trip.

Of course he doesn't. No one means to trip. That's what makes it tripping and not just violently lying down. They still aren't home when it happens. Gerry is going through the belongings of the Web's person, trying to find the Leitner that pulled the poor thing into The Spider's machinations. He's in no rush. The creature is dead now, and neither of them are badly hurt. As far as Gerry knows. But the house is an old one, and some things are in disrepair. A floorboard is loose. The toe of Michael's sneaker catches.

He cries out. He can't help it this time. The throbbing pain in his arm has been growing as he waits, and when he catches himself on his hands and knees- The impact drives through his arm, up the wound along the ragged edges where the dull knife had ripped through him. He shuts his eyes tightly as his vision goes white. He tries to breathe. Doesn't succeed at first. He takes a deep, shuddering breath as it all subsides.

When he opens his eyes, Gerry is on the ground with him. On one knee in front of him, eyes wide and alarmed, a hand on Michael's uninjured shoulder. He hadn't felt that. It bled into the background, behind the actual bleeding.

"What's wrong?" Gerard asks immediately, eyes scanning Michael for signs of injury. But the light is dim and Michael hasn't yet bled through his jacket.

"Nothing. I- I just tripped."

"That wasn't the shout of someone who _just tripped_ , Michael." The reply is stern, in the way Gerry only gets when Michael's well-being is on the line. "What. Happened."

Gerry can be so intense sometimes. It's impossible to look him in the eye when he gets like this. So Michael looks down.

The blood has dripped down to his hand. Along the back of it and between his knuckles

Gerry catches the way he tenses, follows his gaze. Michael still isn't looking at him. He doesn't have to. He can picture perfectly in his head the way Gerard's jaw has set as he pieces things together.

"Take off your jacket."

"Gerry-"

"Lying to my face is a really quick way to piss me off, Michael. So if that's what you're aiming for then by all means-"

"Fine! Alright, fine!" He tries to shrug off the jacket, manages to sit on his feet by leaning his weight on his good arm, but moving the injured one even a little is a tall order. Gerard is smart. Observant. Now that he knows something is wrong it doesn't take long at all for him to zero in on where the problem is. So, despite the irritation in his tone a moment ago, careful hands help him out of the jacket.

The fabric is stuck to the wound with drying blood. It pulls at the already-tender injury, but it's the gentleness of Gerard's hands that makes Michael tear up. There's a hiss from Gerry as the wound is exposed, a sharp intake of air through gritted teeth.

"Jesus Christ, Michael!"

"It really isn't-"

"It's a huge gaping would, you- you-" He breaks off with a sound of frustration. "We have to clean this, get it bound, stop the bleeding. God- have you been just- were you just going to wait there bleeding out?!" The silence is answer enough. Gerry is actually shouting now, which is a special occasion. Michael hasn't ever heard him yell like this before. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?!"

"It wasn't as important as-"

" _Nothing is more important than you, you idiot!_ "

Michael finally looks at him. 

He wishes he hadn't. He can't put a name to whatever is shining in Gerard's eyes. It's too much at once. Too bright to look at directly, too captivating to look anywhere else. The hand not on his shoulder rests itself against the line of his jaw, brushes a thumb along his cheek. He feels like Gerry's hand will come away red, stained with the blush rising to Michael's face.

"Nothing is more important than you." He repeats, quietly but no less charged. "Nothing. I can come back for the Leitner. I can re-track it if I have to. But if you die-" Something wavers. Gerard shudders, and Michael is transfixed. "If you die… There are very, very few ways I could get you back. None of them are pleasant. None of them are something I'd wish on you. All of them are less than you deserve."

"Gerry-"

"I won't let your cause of death be my failure to help you." The determination is back, and Michael has never been so happy to see it. A shaken Gerry is strange to see, and uncomfortable to experience. Fragile and out of place. It doesn't fit him. Always a size too small.

"... I'm sorry." Michael finally tells him, quietly, no less genuine for its softness.

"It…it's alright. Just… don't hide things from me, okay?" Gerry hesitates a moment, looking a bit abashed at his outburst. Michael doesn't think he needs to be, but he appreciates the kiss he gets to the forehead as a result. It's quick, rushed and embarrassed and awkward. It makes him smile and fills him with warmth.

He wonders if Gerry knows how often he inspires that sort of lightness in Michael, how often the things he does make everything seem so manageable.

He wonders if Gerard has any idea how often he does everything right.

He wonders how best to tell him that.

He decides it would be better to do it once he is not actively bleeding out.


	18. "I told you you'd get sick."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snapshot. Just before the end.

Gerard cannot currently see anything. Not because he ripped his own eyes out, and not because anything ripped his eyes out for him. Not because of any sort of retina-related-trauma and not because the room is dark. He cannot see anything because his head is currently buried in his arms where they're folded on the kitchen table. It doesn't really help his headache, or the nausea, but he's hanging in there. 

He can hear the kettle as it begins to bubble. He can hear Michael singing quietly to himself as he moves around the kitchen. The relaxed atmosphere of it is impossible not to find comfort in. He finds himself so proud of Michael. The feeling is vague and far away, glazed over by the fog of unwellness Gerard currently resides in, but it's there. Since Gerard has caught this flu Michael has settled into a comfortable role for himself. 

He couldn't have done that before, Gerry knows. When their relationship started, and well into it as well. It's taken them a few years but finally- finally they're both getting the hang of this. There is no frantic energy to Michael when Gerry needs something. There is no barely repressed panic, no hurried attempts to appease someone he believes doesn't really like him. Just a man taking care of his partner, practiced and attentive. 

That's not to say it's easy. There are still bad days. There likely always will be. Days where Gerard needs to look at Michael and remind him out loud that he loves him. Days when Michael makes a mistake and has to talk himself down from that familiar place of panic. But the fact that he can talk himself down from it at all is somewhere he knows Michael never expected to be. Never knew was possible.

He hears the gentle sound of ceramic against the table as Michael sets a mug of tea in front of him. It's followed by a gentle hand running through his hair in a motion that is automatic. Easy. Not loaded with desperate intent or silent screams of 'please let this be enough.' Because at this point, it is. Michael knows that. He knows he's enough, even if he can't always believe it.

And Gerry is so, so proud of him.

He is also incredibly miserable, though.

"I told you you'd get sick." Michael's voice isn't unkind. It isn't loaded with judgement. It's full of fondness, laced with amusement, and a little bit of well-earned smugness. But he says it, because he knows Gerard won't be upset with him. Because he knows that even if he miscalculates and Gerard does get upset with him, it's okay. It isn't the end of the world.

"You sure did." He lifts his head slowly, blinks blearily at the steaming mug. His eyelids are heavy and his head feels fit to burst. "But fuck me if hubris hasn't been my downfall."

"Good job that it has been, then. Don't think you're quite up for that right now." Michael laughs quietly. He's still petting Gerry's hair. It's nice. Gerry is sick and exhausted but this is… nice.

It's nice, and it's his life now. It's a life he never thought he'd have. It's a life he was slow to accept that he _could_ have. It's a life he still struggles to believe he won't lose. A life he can't quite believe won't be ripped away from him. But he's working on it. He's getting there. He trust Michael. He trusts their relationship. Those two things were hurdles in and of themselves. 

He will never be able to trust the world, or trust it not to try to take this from him. 

But he trusts the two of them to hold on as tightly as possible for as long as possible.

And he hopes that will be enough.


	19. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the weakest one as far as good writing goes but holy shit it was the most fun so far to write!!!!
> 
> Libra mentioned wanting a Spiral!Michael sickfic so... this is what I came up with ♡ how did they get into this situation? What happened? Dunno, that's why this is such a narrative shitshow lmao

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

_**"W̸̺̤͎̩̤͓̳̗̝͖̤͓͚̌̈́̚͝ͅ ḩ̸̡̲̽̈́͐̐̌͝ à̸̤͍̩͇͚͙́ t̵̜̗̘̩͌̌͗̓̒̊̚͝?̸̢̨͓̩̙̗̝̙̘̰͙̱̻̓͑͝"** _

Michael stares at Gerry, but not with its eyes. Its eyes are… not really tangible at the moment. Not much of it is. Its voice comes to Gerry as if from very far away, rather than from the shapeless geometric mess in front of him. Maybe the voice is coming from the door. He can't see the door anywhere, so there is no way to tell.

"How many fingers?" He waves them in front of it, slowly, trying not to panic. His other hand is bleeding, split down the palm where he grips what used to be its shoulder. The blood swirls in tight curls across a surface Gerry cannot process when he looks at it.

"I- don't know-" it struggles to form the words. They don't fit quite right without a mouth to speak them. Garbled and twisted, chopped and changing. Gerry feels wetness dripping from his ears as they hear the unnatural tones.

"I need you to try, okay?"

"I _am-_ "

"I know." He cuts it off, not unkindly. "I know you are. I mean that I need you to _focus_ , okay? I know it's hard right now-"

"Impossible."

"Yes, but you _are_ impossibility. Take charge of it. Look at me- properly. Concentrate on me. Tell me how many fingers I'm holding up."

"I can't-" it chokes on a broken sob, and the sound is literally broken, not metaphorically. It's shattered in the middle, the cracks splitting fractured fractals towards the edges, cutting deeply against Gerard's ears. One of his piercings falls to the floor with a clatter, cut clean from the cartilage. 

He does not waver.

"You can. You _can_ , Michael." He searches. He scans the headache-inducing not-quite-something, trying to find _something_. Trying to find _his_ something. His hand is slick with blood now, up to his wrist and still being shredded. He doesn't let go. He _won't_ let go.

"Michael." He says its name- no matter how much it insists it doesn't have one. "Michael, _please._ "

He doesn't mean to sound so desperate. So afraid. He doesn't want to make it feel badly. God knows he breaks down enough, and it always puts up with him without making him feel shitty about it. But he's terrified. For it, not of it. He can hardly breathe, the air seemingly being swallowed by the vortex of his panic, because he needs it to be okay. He needs Michael to be alright. He needs-

"I need you," he tells it, his uninjured hand reaching into the space where not-quite-a-hand has become definitely-not-a-hand. "I need you to come back. Please."

He's begging. Pleading. Because he doesn't know what's happening. He _can't_ know what's happening. But he knows he refuses to lose Michael. 

Not again.

It gasps. The word doesn't fit the action. It's an intake of something other than air, a sound of that thing being drawn into something other than lungs. He watches something that isn't a chest expand.

A warm liquid starts falling from his eyes. It isn't tears.

Gerry knows it's back when it jerks away from him. The entire being before him violently tears itself out of the place it had been, rips itself as far from that space as it can manage, finding itself not-quite-fitting onto the floor a foot away. Gerry watches. He shouldn't. He can't. 

He does.

It doesn't need to breathe, but it sounds like it's catching its breath. No. It doesn't sound like that at all. But there are no words for what it sounds like, and so Gerry settles. He can't wring his hands or fidget, because both of his hands are completely wrecked. His brain might follow them, he thinks. He can feel it throb as he watches the shifting mass trying to force itself into a marginally comprehensible figure. It aches, just behind his eyes. Like he's been staring at the sun. Burning his retinas. 

That would probably do less damage.

There is a final "sob" as it finally snaps back into shape. It slumps on the ground finally, something like solid and shuddering with a sort of pain Gerry knows he can't imagine. His knees hit the ground beside it, but it shifts away immediately. Like it is made of water, and he is hydrophobic metal.

"Don't touch me-" it croaks, not like a person or a frog would croak. "Don't- you'll hurt yourself-"

"I already _have_ -" And does that really _matter?_

"You'll hurt yourself _more!_ " It cries, distraught.

"I don't care!"

"I do!"

"Well- tough! You don't get to take a hit like that for me and then not let me try to help you!"

" _It would have **killed** you!_" It _screams_ at him, a flash of rage that he isn't sure is directed at him or the thing that tried to hurt him.

"It _almost_ killed _you_!"

"Gerry, _please!_ " It flickers, both voice and form. "Please- at least let me-" it shudders once more, and he can finally see where the edges are. "Let me find a form that won't- I don't want to hurt you anymore."

"Michael-"

"I don't want to hurt you." It repeats, weak in a way he has never heard from it, and suddenly he can see its eyes. Wide, filled with spirals and tears, moving like the surface of rippling water. Wavering to match its voice. "Please don't make me."

His own breath hitches. It sounds so devastated as it pleads with him, and it was already hurt. Did he just make everything worse? Did anything he do help? Has he just been a hindrance the whole time?

"... Okay." He concedes, quietly. Gently. "Okay, I'm sorry. I won't… I won't touch. Just… come as close as you can manage, alright? You can set the boundaries right now."

Usually it leaves that to Gerard. A necessity in their relationship, as it is so much more powerful than him. But right now it is the one that is vulnerable. He needs to keep that in the front of his mind. He needs to stay aware. He needs to be careful. He must have said something right, though, because after a moment of hesitation it finally slinks closer yet closer, pausing occasionally to snap a bit more of itself into place.

By the time it presses itself against him, the shapes that make contact are carefully dulled. The fingers that wipe the blood from his cheeks feel like old, worn velvet. He is thankful it doesn't use its tongue. It sinks into his chest, buries its face in his shirt and shivers against him. He carefully, slowly wraps his arms around it, mindful of his hands, embracing it only after it nods.

"...I'm sorry." He tells it, a whisper into its hair. "I… was worried. You scared me." It startles, tries to pull away, so he hurriedly amends the statement. "I mean I was scared _for_ you. Scared you were hurt. Dying. That I- couldn't help you." Again.

It looks up at him. He watches carefully as it lifts its head up, presses the forcibly-softened shape of its mouth against his chapped lips.

"I'm alright." It tells him, and the tightness in his chest finally lets him breathe easier.

"Don't do that again." He tries to sound stern, but the tone falls flatly into exhaustion.

"I won't." It smiles.

"Is that a lie?"

"No…" It _smiles._

"That's a yes."

It snickers at the way he scoffs.

"I've never told a lie in my entire existence."

"Oh, an absolute pillar of honesty you are."

"Mm." It agrees, kissing him again. Then again, deeper, in that way it does. Like it's trying to crawl into the space he already occupies. He can't help the small sound he makes, but it's worth the off-kilter sort-of-purr it makes in response before speaking as it kisses him. "Come into my hallways. I'll fix your hands."

"What, distort reality itself just to fix me?" He's breathless as it climbs into his lap, kisses across his jaw and up the line of blood leading to his ear. His breath hitches as its tongue runs across one of the cuts- but it doesn't sting. The ache stops. 

"Any time. Always. Easily." It promises smoothly. "Reality is unimportant."

"Unlike you." He tells it, wishing his hands were already healed. Wishing he could grab it, or run his hands through its hair.

"Unlike _you._ " It tells him, returning to his mouth and kissing him so hard he falls back onto the floor, presses him against it. Then there is no floor.

The door opens beneath them. They fall through.

His hands were never injured.

The blood was never there.


	20. "Wake up- You were hyperventilating, are you okay?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short. It also heavily feature Mary Keay. TW for past child abuse and Mary's typical bullshit.

_The closet is dark. That isn't a good thing, really. Darkness is dangerous, hides things that can hurt him, **is** a thing that can hurt him. But then, everything can hurt him. Everything **does** hurt him. Everything hurts all the time, and he can tell how much it all enjoys doing so._

_His mother, especially, finds immense pleasure in his suffering. It's her favourite form of entertainment, he thinks. Nothing seems to amuse her so much as hearing him scream, be it in horror or in pain. Crying doesn't amuse her, though. It annoys her. Irritates her. Enrages her. It isn't allowed._

_That's why he's in the closet. He will risk being torn apart by whatever beasts call the Dark home, if it means he can cry for a bit in relative safely. He's better off with them than with her at the moment. If she finds him in there, curled up and sniffling, small and trembling and muffling his sobs into his sweater, she will be very cross with him._

_He doesn't know, at this point, that crying is normal for a five year old. He doesn't know much about normal five year olds at all._

_"Gerard!" She calls pleasantly, and panic grips him. He shuts his eyes tightly, clamps his hands over his ears. As if that will protect him from her. "Gerard, where have you gone off too?"_

_She'll be angry if he doesn't answer. She'll be angry if he does, with the state he's in. He can't win._

_He can never, ever win._

_"Are you hiding from me?" She laughs, tickled by his futile attempts at keeping himself safe. "Come now, it can't have hurt that badly!"_

_Oh, but it did. It did, and she knows it._

_"This is getting old, Gerard. You can't keep blubbering like a damn fool whenever you get hurt." He knows that. He knows, he knows, he knows- but he can't help it! He's so, so scared all the time. He always feels sick. He always feels sore. He's never not in pain, never not miserable. How can anyone handle living when it's so horrible all the time?_

_She opens his bedroom door._

_He holds his breath._

_She enters the room with slow, even steps._

_"Where oh where could Gerard have gone?" She sings. "Where oh where could he be?" A pantomime of a child's game, completely lost on him as he had never played one. "Not under the bed, no… He knows the Spider is under there…"_

_He hadn't known that, actually. Another nightmare to add to the collection._

_"Come out, come out wherever you are…" Maybe other children would be giggling in suppressed delight. Gerry is barely managing to hold back a sob._

_The steps approach the closet._

_"Is he in here?" He watches in wide-eyed horror as her shadow falls over him through the wooden slots of the door. The knob begins to turn. She's going to find him. She's going to find him and she's going to see him and she'll know he's been crying and she'll be disappointed and upset and he'll be punished and he'll hurt more than he already does and she'll laugh when he begs her to stop and she'll say it's for his own good and he'll be sick afterwards and she'll be livid with him for throwing up at the sight of his own blood and- and-_

_And the door opens._

_Light hits his eyes._

_"I'm sorry!" He cries immediately. His eyes haven't adjusted to the light yet. He can't see anything. "I'm sorry! I tried to stop! I didn't know how!"_

_"Gerry?"_

_He can't breathe._

_"Gerry?"_

_He can't- ___

__"Gerry!"_ _

__There is a hand on his shoulder. He tenses, because if someone is touching him then that means he's about to be hurt. But the hand is gentle. So is the voice that follows it._ _

__"Gerry, wake up- you were hyperventilating, are you okay?"_ _

__Gerry? She never calls him-_ _

__But that's not her voice. That's… that's a man's voice._ _

__"Michael." The name escapes his lungs, wrapped in the breath of relief it inspires. He reaches, blind in the dark, finding the hand on his shoulder and gripping it tightly. It squeezes back, reassuring. Another hand smooths his hair out of his face, cool and careful. It leans into it, savors the tenderness the action holds. It doesn't hurt._ _

__It doesn't hurt._ _

__He reaches out again, finds Michael's shoulder and pulls him back to lie down. The other man makes a soft sound as he goes easily, lets Gerry wrap himself around him. Michael lets him bury his face in the crook of his neck, wraps him tightly in his arms and smooths his hand up and down his back in a comforting motion._ _

__Someone comforting him. It still doesn't feel real._ _

__"It's okay." Michael whispers into his hair. "It's alright- you're safe. You're alright."_ _

__Gerry tightens his hold. He knows he's crying. He knows Michael can tell. There's no way he can't feel the dampness of tears against his bare skin. But Michael isn't upset. He isn't annoyed. He isn't irritated. He is concerned, and attentive, and affectionate. Gerry is allowed to feel. He is allowed to break. He is allowed to be broken._ _

__What a difference love can make._ _


	21. "It was just a dream. You're alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very much a counterpart to the previous chapter. Also very much just totally mediocre but what odds

Michael wakes up somewhere warm and safe.

He also wakes up desperately trying to catch his breath, his heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage, and body shivering like he's been sleeping out in the snow.

But he isn't out in the snow. He's inside, in bed, with strong arms tightly around him, holding him securely. He's pressed against a hard chest, against someone who always runs a little too warm. There's a hand at the back of his head, fingers carding through curls damp with cold sweat. Nearly drowned out by his gasping for air, he hears whispers.

"It's okay. You're okay. Deep breaths." Gerry is speaking slowly, softly, barely a breath manifesting comfort in the dark. The low rumble of his voice matches the rhythm of his hand moving in Michael's hair. The effect is almost hypnotic. "You're alright. It was just a dream, you're alright."

"Gerry-" He whimpers. He doesn't mean to, feels shame at how pathetic he is, but he can't find it in him to regret it when the arms tighten around him and lips press to the top of his head. Gerry shushes him, the sound soft as velvet. It settles into the warmth, into the darkness. Surrounds Michael as surely as the rest of it.

"You're alright. I'm alright. We're both alright. Everything is fine, right now." Gerard tells him, his tone even and steady. "The wards I set up are undisturbed. The cats aren't alerted to anything. I'm right here, I've got you. Nothing is getting to you here. To either of us."

The shaking begins to subside. The breaths he takes in reach his lungs, expand them fully as they're meant to.

"M'sorry." He mumbles miserably as his muscles begin to relax. His face is smushed into Gerry's shoulder uncomfortably, but he has no interest in moving. There's a sharp but brief tug on one of his curls that startles a short yelp from him.

"Stop it. None of that."

"But-"

"Nope."

"You already have trouble sleeping and-"

"And how many times have I woke you up?" Michael has no response to that. Gerry sounds very smug about it. "That's what I thought."

Michael closes his eyes with a resigned sigh. He's exhausted. Drained. And Gerry is so warm, so familiar.

"Need to uh… talk about it or anythin'?" Gerard offers, steeped in awkwardness and uncertainty. It makes Michael smile a bit, that the attempt is being made regardless.

"Ah- no, that's… fine. It's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing?" Gerry scoffs. "Come off it, Michael. We deal with actual nightmare fuel on the daily. There's no shame in-"

"It… it wasn't about any of that."

"Oh." That brings Gerry up short, audibly surprised. A moment passes. "I mean, it's still fine. What, was it about a movie or something? Pizza trying to eat you? I won't judge."

"No, it uh…" He considers it. Considers how much he trusts Gerry (literally with his life.) "It was… I came home and… and the cats were all in their carriers."

"A Herculean feat to be sure."

Van stretches out where she's tucked against Michael's legs, making a soft grumbling mreow as if in response to the concept of being put in her carrier. 

"And your things were all shoved into bags." Silence meets that statement. "I looked around for you and- and you were in the bedroom, shoving your clothes into another bag."

"Michael…"

"I… I don't know what you were angry about. It was vague. But I'd fucked up somehow, royally, and you were just… just furious with me." He takes a shuddering breath. Focuses on the motions of Gerry's hand in his hair. "You said… 'I've put up with enough bullshit in my life, Michael. I don't need yours too.' And I couldn't even argue because you- you were right-"

"Fuck that." Gerard cuts him off with a ferocity typically saved for literal monsters. "Firstly, nothing about you is bullshit. You have issues, yeah, but they aren't bullshit. Secondly, I absolutely do need you." A soft, broken sound from Michael cuts him off. He continues with a rare tenderness. Something Michael knows Gerard will only display in the blinding darkness. "I need you, okay? And I love you."

"I know." And he does. He does. But his subconscious clearly doesn't. "That's why it's stupid."

"It isn't stupid, Michael, it's a nightmare. They aren't meant to be rational. I know for a fact that my mother is gone but I still have nightmares about her."

"That's different-"

"Is it? Trauma-based nightmares? That's different? How?"

"Mine aren't trauma-"

"Michael you really cannot convince me at this point that at some point someone didn't leave you or send you packing when they were supposed to be someone you could trust to love you and stick around."

"I mean- that sort of thing happens-"

"Yeah, and it fucking hurts. Especially when it's people you're supposed to be able to count on. You can't be expected to go from a huge betrayal to immediately being able to trust people to stay and keep loving you."

He wonders, has he ever told Gerry about his parents? He doesn't think so. It feels stupid to complain about what they did, considering Gerry's relationship with his mother.

But somehow Gerard still knows exactly what's going on.

"I trust you." Is what he ends up saying.

"I know. That doesn't mean trusting me is easy to do."

It is, actually. Trusting Gerry is simple. Trusting himself not to completely fuck it up, though. 

That's the hard part.


	22. "Look at me- You're safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a fan of this one but it's the best I could come up with for this prompt, unfortunately.

The hallways are not a place of comfort. They are not a place at all. They are a being, shifting and twisting, and yet they are nothing. Non-existent existence. Michael cannot call them home anymore-so than someone would call their own body a home. Certainly, it is where he resides. Certainly, it is under its control. But it is not a home. It is not a place.

It will make itself into a place, occasionally. For Gerry. So he can have somewhere to hide, somewhere to recover, somewhere to come apart without worry. Many people come apart in these hallways. Not in quite the same way. Much like this, yes, with the shaking and the shivering and the muttering. But they are not somewhere they should be, they are not somewhere that will help. But Michael wants to help Gerry, and so the hallways _become_ somewhere that will help.

His breathing is too fast. Time is difficult for Michael, and so it is difficult to tell if the breaths are quite as quick as they seem, but Michael is fairly certain that Gerry is hyperventilating. Panicking. His arms are wrapped around himself where he sits, curled up on the floor. A blanket manifests around his shoulders, patterned with pretty spirals in an understated monochrome. The fabric is soft, as soft as he could conjure. It's a sort of softness unachievable in reality. Hopefully, it will not drive Gerry mad to feel it.

Michael isn't quite sure what to do. It knows that it would have known, before. It was very good at this sort of thing. But not now. Not anymore. So it just stands there, swaying slightly as it considers what it should do. It isn't even sure Gerard knows where he is. He keeps muttering things like he's talking to someone who isn't there. Like he's somewhere he isn't. Like things are happening, when they aren't really.

It supposes the attack from the Desolation a moment before must have triggered some sort of… episode. Reminded him of something he couldn't bear. Gerard is not crying, but he is braced for pain, and Michael does not like seeing him in such a state.

It sets itself beside him on the floor. Calls to him gently, trying to minimize the echo as best it can. Not a simple feat, in the hallways.

"Gerry," it speaks, reaching but not quite daring to touch. "Gerry, dearest, don't be afraid. Nothing will hurt you here. You are in no danger." It assures him. Gerry tenses. His breath catches. His eyes are squeezed shut. "Gerry, look at me-" it finally rests the tips of its long fingers against his jaw. He tenses, eyes shooting open to look at the thing touching him. "You're safe."

He just stares. Michael isn't sure it can feel nervous anymore, but it is certainly getting there.

"This is my domain, do you understand? It's under my control. You know I won't allow harm to come to you here." Or it hopes he knows that, at least. It doesn't generally experience things like hope, but Gerard has a way of bringing them about.

It watches as Gerry struggles to speak, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly in his attempts. Finally, he manages, hoarse and breaking apart.

"I'm fine." Oh, dear. Michael can't help but laugh. The echo is unstoppable.

"Ah, giving lying a try? Well, when in Rome…"

"Fuck off." He scolds, scoffing, and that slight hint of a smile lights up the hallway. Literally. The lamps along the walls brighten as the shaky expression finds a place among the distress. Michael smiles as well, pressing a kiss to the top of Gerry's head. Gerry used to do the same to it so often, but now it is the taller of the two.

"Do you truly want me to leave?" 

"No." He tells it needlessly as it wraps him in its arms. He leans into it, rests his weight against the side of the shape beside him. It doesn't really have any sides, but they make do. "No, never."


	23. "Take a deep breath."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 5am

The sort of work Gerard does takes getting used to.

Michael is very much not used to it.

He isn't used to the creeping, crawling things trying to burrow into his skin. He isn't used to deranged cultists trying to burn him alive. He isn't used to shadows with teeth or carpets with eyes. He isn't used to the slathering jaws of beasts trying to snap shut on his limbs. He isn't used to maddening shapes reaching and grasping, trying to drag him through doors that don't exist.

He's pretty used to having panic attacks, though. There's a sort of comfort in that. It's familiar. The thing that had been wrapping too-large, too-unreal hands around his neck is sent scrambling back through its door with a shriek that sets his hair on end. The door is no longer there. Gerard is standing between him and the place where the door had never been, shoulders tense and stance guarded. His back is to Michael so it's hard to tell, but Michael is sure Gerry is furious with him. For freezing up, for being incompetent, for being useless. For being scared. For panicking. Michael is supposed to be helping but here he is making Gerard save him.

How is it that in every stage of his existence, Michael manages to be a complete joke?

It's hard to be too focused on what's happening at the moment, though. Hard to be upset about it. Maybe he can see Gerry in front of him, but all he can picture is those impossible shapes. Not the ones from just now. The ones from years ago. Not the ones that had tried to drag him inside, but the ones that had dragged his- friend. His dear, _dear_ friend. Someone Michael had loved. Someone he hadn't been able to save.

He's gasping for air at this point. Sobbing and shaking, barely able to hold himself up despite the wall he's leaning on. He starts to slide down it when hands grab hold of his arms, holding him upright, strong but gentle. There is no moment where he mistakes them for the hands of the thing from before. These hands don't want to hurt him.

"Hey, hey it's alright. It's gone. It's gone and it won't be coming back anytime soon." Gerry speaks to him quickly, quietly. Michael cannot manage a reply. "Michael? Michael, can you hear me?"

He can't answer. He can only choke on a stuttering breath, turn his head away in shame. He doesn't want Gerry to see what a mess he is but… well, anyone with eyes can see that.

"Focus on me right now, alright? Just… just listen to what I'm saying." Gerard fights monsters for a living. Why does he sound so uneasy? "Take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?"

Oh, that's not fair. Gerard knows Michael would do anything for him. 

"In through the mouth for four seconds." Gerry tells him, not sounding sure of what he's saying. "Then out through the nose for four seconds- or… or the other way 'round? Um-"

Michael blinks hard, multiple times, trying to clear his vision. The image of his friend screaming isn't fading, but it's being overshadowed. He can see Gerry now, right in front of him, brow furrowed in such genuine concern it makes Michael's chest ache. He isn't sure when Gerry lifted a hand to his cheek, but it's nice. He leans into it, lifts a shaky hand to cling to it. He hears Gerry sigh in something like relief, but he doesn't understand why.

"There you are." He breathes, his thumb moving gently along the shadow of Michael cheekbone. "There you are. You're doing great, Michael, you're doing amazing."

"I'm not-" he manages, but Gerry shushes him immediately. 

"Stop that. You know I wouldn't lie to you. If you were doing badly, I'd tell you." His tone isn't unkind. Michael is grateful. He doesn't think he could handle unkindness at the moment. "Most people don't leave their first encounter with the Spiral with their minds intact-"

"It wasn't my first."

He doesn't know why he says that. He doesn't want to talk about it. Can't _stand_ to talk about it. Gerry freezes, processing the words. He doesn't say anything but Michael knows, somehow, that he understands.

"Oh shit." He replies, softly and with feeling. Michael just nods. "Shit." He repeats. "Okay. Okay, let's … let's get out of here, alright?" Michael nods, and immediately Gerry is easing him away from the wall, supporting him as they vacate the premises. 

"... I'm-"

"If you apologize for this, I will absolutely fucking lose it."

"Ah. Okay."

"... You really did do well, y'know. Mostly. And being upset is understandable-"

"Gerry?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

The only reply he gets to that is Gerard holding him a bit closer as they walk. That's fine, though. It's all the reply he needs.


	24. "Are you bleeding?!"

It used to be easy to hide certain things from Michael before they lived together. Gerry could take care of things on his own his is flat, or drop Michael off at his place and take off to handle something himself. Not anymore. His flat still exists as a safe house, a backup, but it isn’t home anymore and it doesn’t even occur to him to head there after his most recent tussle. He wasn’t even out hunting Leitner books or anything, he’d just been on the tube and- well, that was his first mistake wasn’t it? Should’ve known better. Nearly lost his arm to the Buried.

He stumbles in through the door to their flat, exhausted and dripping blood from his arm onto the floor. He keeps having to wipe it from his eyes, too, where it drips from a cut on his forehead.

“I’m back!” He calls, voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Finally! I was starting to worry!” Michael calls from the kitchen. Gerry stoops down to greet the two cats that hurry to him, the other two lurking around somewhere. “What happened? Something come up?”

“Nah, just got caught up in some nonsense. Wrong place, wrong time, no big deal.”

“Well, that’s-” He hears a yelp, and Gerry’s head snaps up in time to see the colour completely drain from Michael’s face. “Are you bleeding?!”

“Uh-” He freezes, not at all sure what to do in this situation. “Mmmmaybe?” He doesn’t even finish the word before Michael is crouching beside him, helping him up as if he can’t stand on his own.

“Why didn’t you say you were hurt?!”

“It’s not that big a deal!” He insists, but the glare Michael gives him in response shuts him up quickly. Michael leaves him briefly to fetch towels, spreading them over the floor and table in the kitchen before dragging Gerry to sit down. Then he’s gone again, a whirlwind fetching first aid supplies, a glass of water, and Gerry’s stash of stolen medical equipment for things like stitches.

“Jacket off.” Michael orders, stern and leaving no room for argument. He helps ease it off of Gerry’s bad side, though, wincing in sympathy at the bruised and bleeding skin beneath. “Oh, Gerry…”

“It’s really not that bad-”

“Not the issue, Gerry.” Michael cuts him off firmly, getting up again to fill a large bowl with lukewarm water, and to grab a cloth.

“I really don’t understand why you’re so worked up.” He admits as Michael finally sits back down and starts to clean the wounds. He meets Gerry’s look of confusion with one of fond exasperation, dabbing the damp cloth against the cut on his forehead.

“Because you’re hurt, and I care about you.”

“But it doesn’t really… matter. I mean, I’m fine. I’ll be fine, so it’s not-”

“I love you,” Michael tells him simply. “And you’re hurt. That’s all.” He pauses to kiss him, briefly. “It doesn’t matter that it isn’t serious. It doesn’t matter that it’s easily handled. It doesn’t matter if you’ve had worse. You’re hurt, and that matters to me.”

Huh. Well… That’s new.

And he says it so simply! As if it isn’t the most baffling thing anybody has ever said! As if it isn’t a revolutionary concept, that someone could-

“I don’t want you to hurt. And if it’s unavoidable then… I don’t want you to hurt alone.”

That anyone _would_ -

“Gerry?”

“Fuck.” He chokes out, looking away quickly and lifting his good hand to hide his face. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“I-” Michael reels back, hands hovering where they’d been cleaning. “I’m sorry- did I hurt you?”

“Did you hurt me?” He laughs, just on the edge of hysterical. “Did you _hurt_ me? Would it matter if you did?”

“Yes,” Michael tells him helplessly, easily. “I… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Oh, _goddammit._

“Gerry?!” Panic edges into Michael’s voice when Gerry swings his good arm up and grabs him, tugs him forward hard into his chest and holds him there in a one-armed embrace. “I don’t- what-”

He buries his face into Michael’s curls, ignoring the sting in his forehead and the ache in his arm. The burning feeling of tears in his eyes is harder to ignore.

“I love you too.” He replies belatedly as Michael pats his back awkwardly with the hand not clutching a dripping, semi-bloody cloth.


	25. "How'd you get a bruise like that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes you gotta beat the shit out of jackasses, please let me know what you think!!!!

Gerry isn’t Michael’s keeper.

They’re only barely friends. Sure, he keeps an eye out for the guy because Michael can be so spacey, and he stays alert in case he hurts himself with how clumsy he can be, and he makes sure no one mistreats him because Michael will literally apologize to someone who punches him in the face but-

Gerry tries not to care. He tries not to worry. He tries to remind himself that they are both grown-ass men and Michael does not need or want Gerry hovering around him like Michael can’t take care of himself.

That doesn’t mean he’ll just stand by and watch people mistreat him though.

The new Archival assistant isn’t much of a charmer. He’s curt, rude, and full of himself. He’s bigger than average, taller and broader, and thinks he’s the best thing to ever happen to the place. He’s a total newbie, but he acts like he’s in charge. It drives Gerry nuts, and he isn’t afraid to just blatantly antagonize the guy. Sarcasm and defiance are his bread and butter, after all.

Not like it’s hard to piss him off, though. All it takes is one word. “No.” Just tell the man “no” and he turns into an oversized toddler throwing a tantrum. It’s a little bit hilarious, and he doesn’t even seem to realize how much of a fool he makes of himself. So Gerry tries to find humour in it and goes on with his day.

It gets more infuriating, though, when Michael is thrown into the mix. No one else humours the new guy. Even Rosie just meets his petulance with a thin smile and tells him very politely to go fuck himself. But Michael? Michael isn’t the kind of person who can do that. It isn’t specific to the new guy, but anyone could ask Michael to do anything and he’d try his best. 

The newbie absolutely takes advantage of it.

No one else will do what he says, so he takes to ordering Michael around. No one else will tolerate being talked down to, so he does it to Michael instead. He quickly learns not to do it when Gerry’s around, doesn’t risk talking to Michael at all if he catches Gerard watching him darkly from across the room, but gossip around the office says that he bullies the hell out of Michael when Gerard isn’t there.

And Gerard can’t always be there.

He has Leitner’s to hunt, monsters to kill. Sometimes he’ll be away from the Archives for days or weeks at a time. Every time he comes back it seems Rosie has new stories of things the new guy has said to Michael, things he’s told Michael to do, names he’s called him and insults he’s come up with. It isn’t lost on Gerry that the guy is getting bolder. He doesn’t miss how it seems to be escalating.

He was already in the habit of saying hi to Michael when he gets back. Now it’s the first thing he does.

Michael smiles when he sees him, big and bright like always. But it sets Gerry on edge. There’s a shadow across that smile, a veneer of relief that isn’t usually there. That’s the first hint that something is wrong. The second hint comes after their brief conversation, when Gerry moves to leave the room. Michael lurches forward, panic flashing across his face, his hand reaching out to stop him. There’s a slight tremor in the gesture. The sleeve of his cardigan rides up and-

The third sign that something is very, very wrong makes Gerard go very, very still.

“What happened?” He asks without thinking, eyes locked on Michael’s wrist. Michael follows his gaze, blanches and tries to pull the fabric down over the mark- But Gerry stops him. He’s careful not to move too fast, careful not to be rough. He holds Michael’s hand in place gently and nudges down the sleeve to expose his forearm.

“Nothing, I just- I mean- You know how clumsy I am-”

“I do, yeah. But this…” He narrows his eyes, the chill that had settled into his blood being slowly replaced by heated rage. “This is shaped like a hand, Michael. Like someone grabbed you.” He looks Michael in the eyes, daring him to lie. “How’d you get a bruise like that?”

Michael opens his mouth to reply just as the door opens. They both turn to look as the broad newcomer shoulders through the doorway. Michael presses his lips together, thin and strained. He glances at Gerry, nods at the mark, and then jerks his head towards the man coming through the door. They lock eyes for another long moment, understanding travelling between them.

Gerard is not keen on being accused of another murder, but he seriously weighs whether or not it’s worth it.

“Hey, Mike, I got somethin’ I need you to take care of for me-” The man starts, then comes up short when he looks up from his papers to see the two people in the room, standing close together. He looks from Michael to Gerry, processes the bruise on display between the two, processes that he did it, and processes the angry goth stalking towards him.

“You wanna try to explain?” He manages to ask past his fury, hands fisted at his sides and itching to make contact with the dumbass’s face.

“E-explain?” The new guy sputters, backing up and hitting the door that had closed behind him.

“Yeah. Explain to me what sorta situation calls for you to grab your coworkers so hard they bruise.”

“Oh- well uh- see, that was just- I mean, it was an accident-”

“Do I look stupid to you?”

“No! No, that’s not-”

A quiet voice cuts in.

“He asked me to stay late with him.” Michael starts, and when Gerry glances back at him he sees a look on Michael’s face that’s new to him. A tired resignation, a blank acceptance, and something else. Michael isn’t looking at Gerry, though, he’s looking straight at the new guy, and for the first time, Gerard sees glowing embers of rage simmering in Michael’s eyes. It’s a good look on him. “I didn’t want to. You know how he treats me, and I didn’t want to be alone with him. I made up some dumb excuse and started to leave.”

“And he grabbed you.” Gerry finishes for him, facing forward and reaching out to fist a hand in the front of the guy's shirt.

“And he grabbed me.” Michael spits out the words with no small amount of resentment. It smacks of old, buried wounds, and Gerard has to wonder how many guys like this Michael has had to put up with. He wonders how many of them ever paid for it.

“Michael, would you be terribly upset if I beat the shit out of him?” Gerard asks as casually as possible, smiling a bit when he hears Michael hum in mock-thought behind him.

“Not terribly, no.”

“Good.” He grins, wide and vicious, like the rictus of a dangerous animal a moment before it goes for the throat.

The crunch he hears when his fist makes contact with the new guy's nose is the most satisfying sound he’s ever heard.


	26. "What happened?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the happiness while it lasts y'all
> 
> Reminder: Their cats are Van, Helsing (Van's kitten, Hel for short,) Sidhe, and Banshee (Ban for short.)

It’s the middle of the night when a ruckus drags Michael out of bed. He isn’t sure what woke him up, because naturally, he was asleep when it happened, but he’s immediately alert as he drags himself to consciousness. There’s some flailing. Some tangled blankets around his limbs. He almost falls out of bed.

“Wuh-” He tries, sitting up and blinking in the dark. He can just make out the shape of Gerry sitting up in bed. “What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gerard tells him, sounding awfully amused. That’s strange. Middle of the night like this, Michael expects him to sound shaken or tearful, just up from a nightmare. Instead, he just sounds utterly tickled. He’s sort of curled up, but-

But around something, not around himself.

Gerry is sitting up in bed, cradling one of their cats.

“Ban?” Michael asks with a yawn, assuming it would be their resident troublemaker.

“Helsing.” Gerry corrects with a chuckle, giving the cat a scratch behind the ears.

“Hel?” Their well-behaved, clingy, suck up of a kitten? Who has never woken them up before? “Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

“Oh, he’s fine.” Gerry laughs. “Lightning gave him a bit of a fright, I think.” As if on cue, there’s a flash from outside, followed by the rumble of thunder. Helsing mewls pathetically, squirming in Gerard’s arms as if trying to hide against him. If Gerry were wearing a shirt then the cat would likely climb inside of it.

“Poor kitty.” Michael coos, reaching out and giving him a pat. Helsing, ever stuck of Michael’s side like glue, immediately shoots out of Gerard’s arms and into Michael’s, diving beneath the blankets and curling up against Michael’s stomach. Gerry is laughing full-out now, and Michael can’t even be upset. It’s such a lovely sound.

Michael lies back down, curls protectively around their cat to maybe help him feel a bit safer. He’s already drifting off again the moment his head hits the pillow.

“Comin’ back t’bed?” He mumbles vaguely, a hand reaching out blindly. Gerry catches it, presses a kiss to his fingertips.

“Yeah. Just gonna make sure everything is okay first. Check on the cats, make sure everything’s locked…”

Michael doesn’t bother pointing out that of course everything is locked, that Gerry wouldn’t have gotten into bed in the first place if everything wasn’t locked and all the protections weren’t set up. He knows that doesn’t matter. Gerry is awake now, and he needs to see it all with his own eyes and confirm everything is already before he can let his guard down and sleep again.

So he makes himself stay awake despite his heavy eyes, listening as Gerry works his way around their apartment. He makes himself stay awake until the other side of the bed dips down again and a warm arm wraps around him. Helsing is purring between them, despite the storm still raging outside.

Michael falls back asleep, completely and utterly content.


	27. "Let me help you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't easy being green- er, distorted.

Gerard didn’t watch Michael die, the first time.

He has a sinking feeling that he’s watching him die the second time, though.

They aren’t somewhere dark and scary. They aren’t somewhere dangerous. They’re in the flat that Gerry used to share with Michael, and now shares with Michael. This Michael is not lying on the floor in a pool of blood, because it likely does not have blood. It also is not injured in any way Gerry can see, but he isn’t sure he wants to know what an injury looks like for it.

Michael is sat on the couch, Gerry thinks. It has its head in its long hands… he thinks. It’s hard to tell since it’s blurring and fading at the edges, showing in twos and threes and not at all. The lines that make up the outside of its form are not lines that can persist in this reality, and the shapes that make up the rest of it are not shapes his mind can process. The angles cut into his occipital lobe.

“Michael?” He manages, horrified in a way he hasn’t been with Michael in a very long time. He hurries forward, and Michael hurries backward, stumbling over the back of the couch and sliding onto the floor like someone had poured him liquidized out of a bottle. “Michael!” He calls again, as Michael continues to slide away from him. “Would you- Would you stop-” He tries, lurching forward to try to catch him.

He might as well be trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.

“Goddammit, Michael would you just-” He runs straight into a wall as Michael shifts to the left. “Just- Stop moving and-” He can head Michael making sounds of agony. Literally. They are agonizing to hear. The headache they give him is splitting, his ears are ringing, and Michael sounds like he’s in more pain than that. “Let me help you!” He screams in his despair, his hands closing around angles that cut deep into his palms.

Michael freezes. The angles go soft and smooth, the edges start to form something coherent. Gerard can finally make out the big, shimmering eyes looking back at him, an undefined implied brow upturned in concern. It’s still making those awful, pained sounds.

“Let me help you.” He repeats, desperate and out of breath. “What’s going on? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“I always hurt.” It tells him, tilting its head. Its eyes go very far away for a moment before it focuses on him again. “I… thought you were napping.”

“I was. I was out for a good five hours- How long have you been out here like this?”

No answer. Gerry sighs, eases Michael closer to him, nudges it into his embrace. It falls against him with something just to the right of a whimper.

“What hurts? What’s going on?” He urges.

“Everything, I… I exist. I exist but I don’t and it… It’s- It’s a dissonance. I am dissonant.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are. You’re Distortion.”

“Yes. And I’m Michael.” It chokes out. “Michael was not made to be Distorted, and… and the Distortion was not made to be Michael. Neither fits into the other. It- it cuts. It aches. It’s discordant. It hurts. It isn’t right, it isn’t- supposed to be- I’m not supposed to be like this- I shouldn’t be like this!” It sobs into Gerard’s hair, its form sizzling into static where his arms are wrapped around it.

“Did something happen to make it worse or…?”

“No… No, it just… gets to be too much, sometimes.” It admits softly, like it’s unnerved to say it out loud. “Existing while not existing. It’s hard.”

“Oh, Michael…” He sighs, running his bleeding hand up and down its back in soothing motions. The blood does not stick to it. It rolls off, like water off a duck's back.

“Say that again… My name.” It sniffles.

“Michael. You are Michael. Different, but consistent. You’re Michael, you’re here, you’re home with me and I love you.” He holds it as it literally unravels in his arms, as it changes textures and shapes and colours and outfits. He holds it as it cries, as it wails, as it shudders.

He holds it, and repeats his love for it over and over again.

And he will continue to do so, for as long as it needs.


	28. "Can you hear me?"

Gerard knows the moment he wakes up that he's in a hospital. 

He also immediately tries to leave.

Unfortunately for him, though, his body is not responding when he tries to move it. He doesn't much like that. His chest constricts with barely managed panic at the sudden realization of his helplessness. He can't remember why he's in a hospital, what happened, or why he can't move. He doesn't know where he is or who's around.

He tries to think. Tries to remember what put him in a hospital bed. He remembers going into work, he remembers getting coffee for Rosie, he remembers saying hi to Michael-

_Michael._

The moment his thoughts fall to Michael, the panic spikes. But he doesn't know why. Why would thinking about Michael worry him? Why would it upset him? He remembers work as usual, and then- then a commotion, an inhuman growling, Artefact Storage, something dark and sharp. He remembers wide, bright blue eyes staring in horror as something wicked shot towards them-

He doesn't remember anything else.

He can hear his heart monitor picking up.

The Institute was attacked. He isn't sure what it was- the Dark? The Hunt? The Slaughter? He and Michael had run into Artefact storage to find something to fight back with- but it had cornered them. It launched itself at Michael-

His arm twitches. He has to get up, has to find out what happened, has to find Michael-

A hand rests itself over his, over the one he's finally managing to move a little. He can't get any tenser than he already is but he makes a valiant efforr. The hand over his is joined by another, cradling it between them and gently tracing patterns along his palm.

"Gerry, can you hear me?"

A soft, unsure voice speaks up, nearly drowned out by the frantic beeping of the monitor. The relief is instant.

The beeping slows.

"It's um… it's Michael, but you probably already knew that." He laughs weakly. Gerry tries to squeeze his hand and doesn't quite manage it. "... I don't know if you can hear me but… but I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough. Sorry I… I froze. I froze, and you got hurt because of it. I can't even express how- how awful I feel-" His voice starts to falter, choked out by something coloured by grief but not quite there yet. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't want you to get hurt…"

He remembers throwing himself between Michael and the monster.

He remembers how Michael had _screamed_ when Gerard hit the floor.

And Gerard can't even tell him that it isn't his fault. That he made his own decision.

Gerard can do nothing but lie still and listen.

"I don't understand why you did it. I don't get why you would risk your life for- for the likes of me. I'm not worth that. I'm not worth your life, your wellbeing. I'd rather it be me than you." He sniffles. "Not- not to sound ungrateful, just- God- I don't want you hurt, Gerry. I can't stand seeing you like this- but I know that doesn't matter, it isn't about me, you're the one that's hurt and-"

Silence, for just a moment. Then the barest tremble of a whisper:

"It should've been me," punctuated by a sob. "I wish it'd been me."

Michael raises Gerard's hand gently, and Gerry feels something strange against his knuckles. It takes him a moment to realize Michael kissed them.

"You probably can't hear me. And you might die. So I'll say it now: I… I lo-" a deep breath. "I-... I care about you. A lot. And I'm a coward."

One of Michael's hands leaves Gerry's, and a moment later Gerry feels it smoothing hair out of his face, shaking fingers against his temple.

"I'm so, so sorry."


	29. "You hit your head pretty hard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its about the pining

"Hey Michael."

"Oh!" Michael shoots up from where he'd been crouched under a table, reaching for a pencil he'd dropped. This turns out to be a mistake, however, as he immediately smashes his skull against the table. Because of course he does.

Right in front of his hot coworker too.

"Oh geez," Gerdard stifles a laugh, leaning on the offending table and crossing his arms. "That looked like it hurt."

"No! No, not at all!" Michael squeaks, despite how he has his hand clamped over his curls. He feels like it should come away bloody with how much it hurts, but it doesn't.

"You sure? You hit your head pretty hard. You might have a concussion." Michael is pretty sure Gerard is joking. Mostly.

"If I got a concussion every time I hit my head, I'd live in the hospital." He laughs awkwardly. Gerry's lips turn up on one side, a lopsided smile, and Michael-

Michael can feel his face flushing.

He quickly turns away, pretending to look through to shelves of books.

"So um, did you need something, Gerry?"

"Do I have to need something to come talk to you? Maybe I just wanted to see you."

"Right, cause you enjoy my company so much." Michael jokes, scoffs, shakes his head at the notion. He doesn't expect the response he gets.

"I do, actually." 

He stumbles forward in surprise, smacking his forehead off the shelf.

"Holy shit," Gerry sounds mildly impressed. "Going for a record?"

"Working on it." Another awkward, drawn out laugh, to cover up his embarrassment. 

"Good job you've got all those curls. Keep your skull nice and cushioned."

"Keeps my ears warm in winter too." He looks back at Gerry, just to see the brief smile when he makes him laugh. Always such a lovely sight. "I'm… glad you're back safe, by the way. From your last trip."

"What, were you worried?" Gerry scoffs, as if that would be completely absurd.

"I always worry." He admits unthinkingly, and he wonders if their faces are the same shade of scarlet. "I- I mean uh- I worry about everything! All the time. Anxiety, y'know? Can't help it!" His laugh pitches higher this time.

Can someone please just kill him?

"Er- thanks but… you don't have to worry about me, yeah? I've been doing this sort of work for a long time."

"What, archival work? Field work?"

"...let's go with that, sure." Gerry finally pushes off of the table, sauntering closer to Michael. His heavy boots thump intimidatingly on the tiled floor. He approaches, stops a respectable distance away, but Michael wishes he'd keep walking. Keep advancing. Push forward and press Michael back into the bookshelf, so close Michael would have to tilt his head up to look at him, and then-

"For the record... I worry about you too, when I'm away." Gerard admits, voice low and cheeks dusted pink. He can't quite meet Michael's eye, but that's fine. Gives Michael all the time in the world to admire him.

"Oh," he breathes in revelation.

"Yeah. Oh." Gerry smiles that crooked half-smile again. "I'll see you around, okay?"

"Okay." Michael agrees weakly, knees shaking and head swimming.

He wonders if that last bit is from hitting his head twice, or just from how big of a crush he has on his coworker.


	30. "I know it hurts, I'm sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Implied past abusive relationships, blood, Gerry attacks Michael but not on purpose. Please be safe.

He doesn't know what he's fighting. He doesn't know what's happening. But that's nothing new. That's his whole life. Fighting tooth and nail against everything and everyone, even the things he doesn't know, because all of them- every single one- wants to hurt him. It's old hat at this point, honestly. The rush of fight-or-flight is still coursing through his marrow, settled into his muscle memory. He's braced, he's a fighter. Something grabs him, and he springs to action.

Neutralizing the threat is easier than expected. He pins it, drives his forearm hard against its windpipe. The fact that it has one means it's human- or at least shaped like one. It needs air, too, because he can hear it choke and gasp. He feels hands at his arm, waits for nails or claws or talons, waits for his flesh to be shredded. But the soft pads of fingers settle there instead, firm in their grasp but not hurting. Not pulling. There had been some initial flailing but other than that… whatever this thing is, it isn't struggling. Or trying to hurt him.

Something is very wrong.

The thought occurs to him, and it's like lifting a blindfold. Flipping a switch. Dispersing the haze. The thought occurs to him, and he realizes he has been having a nightmare. The thought occurs to him, and he wakes up. The thought occurs to him, and he opens his eyes.

The thought occurs to him, and he realizes he has his boyfriend pinned to their bed by the throat, cutting off his airways. 

With a gasp and a curse, Gerry jumps so far back from Michael that he almost ends up on the floor. Michael draws air in desperately, immediately, coughing and wheezing and clutching at his throat. It makes Gerard feel sick to watch it. It makes him feel even worse to notice the splash of red coming from Michael's nose.

Did-

Did Gerry-

He couldn't have- he wouldn't have-

But who else?

"I'm- holy shit, Michael, I'm so sorry-"

"It's fi-"

"Don't- don't you dare tell me it's fine." Gerard manages, a lump in his throat. "It isn't. This is as far from- from fine as it- you're bleeding- god, hold on, I'll get tissues-"

Michael starts calling after him, but Gerard has already fled the room. His legs are shaking. That's… novel. He's fought a million monsters, had a million nightmares. He always manages to keep himself steady, somehow.

He thinks about the way Michael had held onto his arm so gently while Gerard had-

He can't even think the words.

The shaking worsens.

He gathers an ice pack, a pack of tissues, and a glass of water. He re-enters the bedroom, circles around to Michael's side of the bed, sits on the edge and places the items on the bedside table. He hesitates to turn on the lamp. He doesn't want to see the damage he's done.

But he has to, if he's going to fix it.

He turns on the lamp. He goes for the tissues first, to clean up the blood on Michael's face and what has dripped onto his hands. Michael winces at the slightest pressure against his nose. It must be tender. Gerry's glad he didn't break it.

He hates that that has to even be a concern for them.

He hates himself for making it so.

"I know it hurts, I'm sorry." His voice shakes, just like the rest of him. Just like Michael, who is wracked with tremors as he sits, looking more than a little dazed. "I'm so sorry."

"I shouldn't have-"

Gerard isn't in the habit of silencing Michael, but he'll allow it just this once.

"No. I hit you, Michael. I attacked you. I hurt you. There is nothing that makes that okay. There is no- no circumstance-"

"I… Gerry, I know that." Michael tells him softly, his voice ragged and nasally. "Believe me when I tell you, I know that. But it's still okay."

"It isn't-!"

"It was an accident." Michael shouldn't have to be the one assuring him right now. "You aren't an abuser, Gerry. Trust me."

"How can you know?" He croaks, resigned and exhausted. 

"... This is the first time any of my boyfriends have told me it wasn't my fault." Michael whispers, quiet enough that Gerard almost can't hear. Maybe that's what Michael is aiming for. "Even the ones that apologized, they'd pin it on me somehow."

Gerry's brain stops. Michael doesn't. 

"It was an accident, and you're taking responsibility for it. That's why it's okay, Gerry." Michael lifts a trembling hand. He swipes a thumb across Gerard cheek. It comes away wet.

He doesn't know when he started crying.

Maybe he has been this whole time.

"I'm sorry." He breathes the words again, because he doesn't know what else to do. Michael reaches for him, tugs him forward gently into an awkward one-armed embrace. 

His other hand is still holding tissues to his nose.

"I know. I love you."

It would probably hurt less if he physically carved Gerard's heart out.

"I love you too."


	31. "Don't move."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So on one of my other fics someone pointed out that Michael is much more cryptic than I've been writing him. I tried to channel that more this time and I feel much better with the result. Thank you so much for the feedback, it really helped!
> 
> Please let me know what yall think

Certain Entities are more difficult to go against than others. More frustrating, more tactical, more deadly. The Flesh and The Slaughter are easy as long as you can handle yourself in a fight. It's the same for The Hunt, but kicked up a notch since Hunters usually have some degree of tactical sense. The Stranger and The Spiral are rather useless against someone who knows how to see through them. The Vast is a free amusement park ride if you have the guts for it, and the Buried is just boring after the first few times underground. You can desensitize yourself to The Lonely and The Eye, to the feelings of loneliness or being watched. Even The End is pretty simple, because The Entity itself and its Avatars are not very interested in meddling. For the most part, anyway.

Desolation is tricky. It's almost impossible to get the best of it without at least a mild burn, and burns are some of the hardest injuries to take care of on your own. The risk of infection is much higher, especially for second or three degree burns. The Corruption is the same problem. Straight forward, easy to dismantle, but challenging to escape unscathed. The Dark can be navigated, but with difficulty. Its Avatars and cultists are child's play, but its creatures are challenging. They exist wherever the darkness is and usually, if you're dealing with The Dark, that's everywhere.

The Web, though.

That one's the worst.

The problem with the Web is that there's no way around it. There's no trick to defeat it. The Web is not a physical thing you can fight. Even when it seems like it is, when it's a giant spider or a scorpion, it's almost always just a lure so it can achieve something more insidious. So if you want to beat it, you have to out-think it. Get a step ahead of it.

The problem is this:

You cannot out-play the Mother of Puppets.

It isn't possible. It's a fool's errand to try. It's an almost certain death, and the "almost" is just to account for the possibility of it choosing to _use_ you rather than kill you.

Gerard knows that the easy-to-access location of the Leitner is a trap. He knows The Web wants him to find it, that The Web knows he can't just leave it. The Spider accounts for all possibilities, silken threads tied together but built strong enough to stand alone if needed. Contingency after contingency. It's infuriating. So yeah, he knows going after the Leitner is stupid. But he also can't leave it, or someone else will stumble into it, and The Spider knows Gerard cannot tolerate that.

It's clearly a trap.

But there's no way around it.

And so he enters the abandoned basement of a derelict building, easy to find and easier to break into. The Leitner is on a counter, unassuming and completely visible. The Web couldn't be more obvious and he is very aware that's intentional. Just as an added insult. Still, he grits his teeth and steps into the room, a willing moth. Aware of the nature of the flame, still reducing itself to kindling.

He is consigned to his own destruction. 

Another step forward.

The door closes behind him. He doesn't even spare it a glance. A door opens. A presence settles behind him. It leans in close, its hair tickling his cheek and its breath against his neck. It whispers:

"Don't move."

Gerry sighs heavily.

"What the hell do you want, Michael."

" _Do_ I want something?" It asks with a laugh, dragging the words out contemplatively. "How strange. You'd think I'd be the first to know!"

More laughter. Gerry rolls his eyes. He begins to turn around to face his stupid monster boyfriend, but ridiculously large hands clamp themselves down on his shoulders, setting him firmly in place. It's much less delicate that Michael usually is with him.

"You're not very good at following directions." Michael complains, but Gerard just scoffs. "You know what this is." Michael states, and it very much is not a question. The veneer of amusement is thin where it wraps around its ire. "You know, but you're here regardless." 

"Yep."

"If you're so desperate for a horrible, drawn out death-"

"I can't just _leave_ it, Michael." Gerry cuts it off impatiently. "You know that."

"If only there were something out there willing to help you."

There's a pit of anxiety deepening, just at the base of his esophagus and dropping into his stomach. He takes a breath, draws stagnant air into the chasm.

"I think I've earned the right to be a little selfish." He says simply, exhaling slowly as he speaks. The nervous vacuity strangling his lungs and stomach shrinks, but only a little. "I don't want you to be… Unraveled."

There is silence for a long moment. Then laughter, uproarious and echoing against nothing, prismatic at the edges of the sound.

"You think The Spider could unravel _me_?"

"I know she could." He retorts without hesitation, unfooled by Michael's bravado.

"Mm. That's a nice thought." It sighs dreamily, its hands still vice-like on his shoulders. "But alas, her arms are not _quite_ as long as mine."

Whatever the fuck _that_ means.

"Can I go after the book now?" Gerry requests, trying not to sound like a whining child.

"You'd never make it there." It points out, sounding absolutely tickled by the suggestion that he could. Then it whispers: "She does weave such elegant threads…"

"Michael-"

"So delicate they are, so subtle and unassuming when they need to be." It hisses in his ear. "So thinly, _expertly_ done… you can hardly even see them."

"I _know_ this is a trap-"

"You _know_ , but you don't _see_."

He pauses, considering its words. What would there be to see? Though in the dim light filtering weakly through the grimy basement window it's hard to see much of anything at all. Just the counter, the book, some scattered papers on the floor, a red stain on the wall, dust in the air and-

And lines. Dissecting the room around him, layered one after the other, so complex in their patterns that they could not be untangled or avoided.

Lovely.

"The door behind me is covered in them, isn't it." It's not even a question, resigned and almost bored.

"Which one?" It asks easily, casually. Gerard allows himself a smile.

"But the book-"

"Did you know I can bend into some very lovely shapes now?" It asks him with delight. "I could show you, if you want to watch!"

"I think I'll skip the migraine, thanks."

"Suit yourself." It spins them around in place, nudging Gerard towards the door. "Go on, then, and do try your best not to die before I get back."

"No promises." He quips, heading through the door without doubt of its safety and without hesitation. 

It closes behind him before he realizes:

He's still smiling.


	32. "Breathe."

Michael has never been buried alive before.

He doesn’t think he’d like to do it again.

It’s cramped, for one. His limbs are long and, as flexible as he is, it’s still a squeeze. He can feel the cold, hard earth pressing along his skin, the dampness of it seeping into his clothes. He can feel things crawling and tries not to think of them. He feels like he’s being crushed, and has given up on trying to get out. Every time he tries to dig he realizes he can’t tell which way is up, and that each time he moves he seems to have a bit less room.

The most alarming part, in his opinion, is the fact that he can’t breathe. Not well, anyway. He seems to have a little air bubble around his face, thankfully, because The Buried apparently doesn’t want him dead… Yet. But it isn’t much, and he doesn’t know how long it will last.

The book is still tucked inside of his sweater, though. That’s the important bit. Even if he’s dead by time Gerard finds him, at least he got the book.

He hopes Gerry will be okay without him. He’s sure that he’ll be fine, emotionally. After all, Michael is easily replaced and not very useful. It might even be a relief, he thinks. Gerry won’t have to deal with his anxious nonsense anymore, or his clinginess, or his irritating affections. He tries to take comfort in knowing that maybe Gerry will be better off without him, but it just makes him feel choked up.

Or maybe that’s the whole “being buried alive” thing. Who knows.

Gerry is bad at taking care of himself, though. He doesn’t feed himself enough or properly, he doesn’t sleep enough if ever, he is careless with his body and only does the bare minimum required to keep going. Unless Michael pushes him into it. Without Michael there, will he start deteriorating? Will he lose all the good habits Michael tried to encourage? Will he go back to takeout and twenty-minute naps? Will he get himself hurt and not bother to take care of it?

Of course he knows that Gerard is a grown man and surely can keep himself alive after all this time, but Michael still can’t help but worry. He doesn’t just want Gerry to survive. He wants him to be happy. There is no question about whether or not Gerard will be able to carry on without him. The concern is if he will be happier or not.

That’s what matters to Michael most, in what he thinks are his last moments.

Will Gerry be happy?

The dirt crumbles above him.

He sputters and coughs as if falls down, bouncing off of his matted curls and into his face. He shuts his eyes against the rocks and the light, struggles not to breathe in the fresh air too deeply and take in debris with it. He hears something above him, cursing and digging and his name. Hands reach down, grabbing at him, trying to pull him up.

The ground does not want to let him go.

It tugs him deeper, trying to swallow him whole once more. But the hands will not let him go. They grip tighter, pull harder, and the person above him curses more violently.

“Fuck off!” The person shouts, rough and strained from the tug-of-war. “You can’t have him! Michael? Michael, can you move your arms? Can you reach up?”

He wiggles a bit, to check. The dirt hugs him closer, constricting his movements and pressing in on his ribs. He can’t help the small noise he makes as he realizes how much harder that makes it to breathe. His chest can’t expand.

“Dammit!” The voice chokes as if its owner were the one underground.

“It’s okay,” he tries, the words squeezed out with his breathing. “I’m okay with this-”

“I’m not!” The voice is snarling, furious and defiant. “I’m not okay with this, and I’m not- letting- you-” It tugs at him with each word, harder each time. He can feel his sneakers sliding off where the ground will not relinquish them, his feet slipping out. “-Die!”

Another hard pull.

His exit from The Buried is violent. The ground tries to crush him when it realizes it is losing. He feels scraped and squeezed and sore, but he’s whole. He’s alive. He’s uninjured.

He’s on top of someone.

His saviour has pulled him out of the hole in the ground and into himself. His back hits the ground as Michael lands on top of him, but he doesn’t try to push Michael off or even move. He keeps his grip on him, holds him tightly. His hands clutch the filthy, dirt-caked fabric of Michael’s sweater so tightly he can feel it rip.

Michael feels light-headed, as the air rushes into his lungs. As the chill of the earth is replaced with the warmth of the sun and of the person beneath him. He lies there, exhausted, trying to catch his breath. Pulling in each delicious lungfull of oxygen after another, savouring it in a way he never has before.

“Breathe,” the person beneath him tells him, needlessly. Michael blinks hazily in the light, lifts his head just a little.

“Gerry.” He sighs in relief.

“Michael.” Gerard does the same, one of his hands releasing its hold on Michael’s sweater just to brush some dirt off of his face. There’s no point, though. He’s covered. “You alright?”

“I’ll live.” He allows Gerard to move him enough to sit up, too exhausted to really support himself very well.

“Not what I asked, but definitely good to hear.” Gerard is still looking him over, eyes sharp and alert as they take in Michael’s battered state. He huffs in mock-anger. “You scared the hell out of me, you asshole.”

Michael laughs weakly.

“I got the book though.” 

“Oh.” Gerry blinks, realization breaking in his eyes. “Oh, right, the uh… The book. Still have to burn that.”

So he says, but he doesn’t try to move.

“...You know, we probably shouldn’t just… Sit outside in broad daylight covered in dirt like this.” Michael points out.

“We’re in the middle of the woods, no one’s around.”

Michael opens his mouth to argue that they can’t guarantee that, that it would be safer to head back home. But then he realizes Gerard knows all that. He realizes that Gerard’s mouth is set into a hard, grim line. He realizes Gerard has gone from looking at Michael to staring at the hole he’d pulled Michael out of, glaring. He realizes Gerard is shaking.

“Are… you okay?” Is what Michael settles on, soft and uncertain.

The fact that Gerry doesn’t brush off his concern right away is progress, but also concerning.

“Are you?” He returns the question, finally bringing his eyes back to Michael. As always, the steel inside of them brings him up short. It takes his breath away when he has only just gotten it back.

“... I am now, yeah.”

Gerard watches him closely, considering the truthfulness of that answer. He must find something encouraging, though, because his shoulders relax and he almost smiles.

“Then so am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to make sure it's clear: these are warm-ups. They're short, they're a little rough, and some of them vary in characterization as I try out different angles. I'm posting these mainly to get opinions from the fandom about the things I'm trying with these characters so I have a better idea of how to approach my larger fic.
> 
> So please, let me know your thoughts! Every little bit helps ♡


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